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THE 

BEAUTIES 

OF 

IZIIUH,? KZB,KE TfHZTS, 

u 

CONSISTING OF SELECTIONS 

■i 

FROM HIS 

FOETBV dAJSTD PROSE. 

BY ALFRED HOWARD, ESQ,. 

Stereotyped by David HiUs^..,Boston. 

-►►►®®®*<«- 

PHILJIDELPHM: 

PUBLISHED BY J. CRISSY. 

1829. 






'r^^ 







SS>imE.® W! 



ON HEARING AN iEOLIAN HARF. 

So ravishingly soft upon the tide 
Of the infuriate gust it did career, 
It might have soothed its rugged charioteer, 

And sunk him to a zephyr ; — then it died. 

Melting in melody ; — and I descried. 

Born to some wizard stream, the form appear 
Of druid sage, who on the far-off ear 

Pour'd his lone song, to which the surge replied : 

Or thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's knell. 
Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds. 
By unseen beings sung; or are these sounds 

Such, as 'tis said, at night are known to swell 
By starting shepherd on the lonely heath. 
Keeping his night-watch sad, portending death 

A BALLAD. 

Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds, 

Ye pelting rains, a little rest: 
Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts, 

That wring with grief my aching breast. 

Oh! cruel was my faithless love. 

To triumph o'er an artless maid; 



4 KIRKE WHITE. 

Oh! cruel was my faithless love, 

To leave the breast by him betrayM. 

When exiled from my native home, 

He should have wiped the bitter tear; 

Nor let me faint and lone to roam, 

A heart-sick weary wanderer here. 

My child moans sadly in my arms, 

The winds they will not let it sleep; 
Ah! little knows the hapless babe 

What makes its wretched mother weep. 

Now lie thee still, my infant dear, 

I cannot bear thy sobs to see: 
Harsh is thy father, little one. 

And never will he shelter thee. 

Oh that I were but in my grave. 

And winds were piping o'er me loud, 

And thou, my poor, my orphan babe. 

Were nestling in thy mother's shroud! 

MY OWN CHARACTER. 

Addressed {during Illness) to a Lady. 

Dear Fanny, I mean, now I'm laid on the shelf. 
To give you a sketch — ay, a sketch of myself. 
'Tis a pitiful subject, I frankly confess. 
And one it would puzzle a painter to dress; 
But however, here goes, and as sure as a gun, 
I'll tell all my faults like a penitent nun; 
For I know, for my Fanny, before I address her. 
She won't be a cynical father confessor. 
Come, come, Hwill not do: put that purling brow down ; 
You can't, for the soul of you, learn how to frown. 



KIRKE WHITE. 



Well, first I premise, 'tis my honest conviction, 
That my breast is a chaos of all contradiction; 
Religious — Deistic — now loyal and warm; 
Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform: 
This moment a fop, that, sententious as Titus; 
Democritus now, and anon Heraclitus ; 
Now laughing and pleased, like a child with a rattle; 
Then vex'd to the soul with impertinent tattle; 
Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay. 
To all points of the compass I veer in a day. 

I'm proud and disdainful to Fortune's gay child. 
But to Poverty's offspring submissive and mild; 
As rude as a boor, and as rough in dispute; 
Then as for politeness — oh! dear — I'm a brute! 
I^how no respect where I never can feel it; 
And as for contempt, take no pains to conceal it; 
And so in the suite, by these laudable ends, 
I've a great many foes, and a very few friends. 

And yet, my dear Fanny, there are who can feel 
That this proud heart of mine is not fashion'd like steel. 
It can love, (can it not?) — it can hate, I am sure; 
And 'tis friendly enough, though in friends it be poor. 
For itself though it bleed not, for others it bleeds; 
If it have not ripe virtues, I'm sure it's the seeds; 
And though far from faultless, or even so-so, 
I think it may pass as our worldly things go. 

Well, I've told you my frailties without any gloss; 
Then as to my virtues, I'm quite at a loss: 
I think Pm devout, and yet I can't say 
But in process of time I may get the wrong way. 
I'm a general lover, if that's commendation. 
And yet can't withstand — you know who's fascination. 
But I find that amidst all my tricks and devices, 

In fishing for virtues, I'm pulling up vices; 

1* 



6 KIRK.E WHITE. 

So as for the good, why, if I possess it, 
I ara not yet learned enough to express it. 

You yourself must examine the lovelier side. 
And after your every art you have tried. 
Whatever my faults, I may venture to say, 
Hypocrisy never vt^ill come in your vt^ay. 
I am upright, I hope; I'm downright, I'm clear; 
And I think my worst foe must allow I'm sincere; 
And if ever sincerity glow'd in my breast, 
'Tis now when I swear 

CHILDHOOD. 

Pictured in memory's mellowing glass how sweet 
Our infant days, our infant joys to greet; 
To roam in fancy in each cherish'd scene, 
The village churchyard, and the village green. 
The woodland walk remote, the greenwood glade. 
The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn's shade, 
The white-wash'd cottage, where the woodbine grew, 
And all the favourite haunts our childhood knew! 
How sweet, while all the -evil shuns the gaze. 
To view th' unclouded skies of former days! 
Beloved age of Innocence and smiles, 
When each wing'd hour some new delight beguiles. 
When the gay heart, to life's sweet day-spring true, 
Still find some insect pleasure to pursue. 
Bless'd Childhood, hail! — Thee simply will I sing, 
And from myself the artless picture bring ; 
These long-lost scenes to me the past restore, 
Each humble friend, each pleasure now no more. 
And every stump familiar to my sight 
Recalls some fond idea of delight. 
This shrubby knoll was once my favourite S6at; 
Here did I love at evening to retreat, 



KIRKE WHITE. 7 

And muse alone, till in the vault of night, 

Hesper, aspiring, show'd his golden light. 

Here once again, remote from human noise, 

I sit me down to think of former joys; 

Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once more, 

And once again each infant walk explore. 

While as each grove and lawn I recognise, 

My melted soul suffuses in my eyes. 

And oh! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort 

To distant scenes, and picture them to thought; 

Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye. 

Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy; 

Bless'd memory, guide, with finger nicely true. 

Back to my youth my retrospective view; 

Recall with faithful vigour to my mind 

Each face familiar, each relation kind; 

And all the finer traits of them afford. 

Whose general outline in my heart is stored. 

SPORTS OF CHILDHOOD. 

'Neath yonder elm, that stands upon the moor. 
When the clock spoke the hour of labour o'er. 
What clamorous throngs, what happy groups were seen. 
In various postures scattering o'er the green! 
Some shoot the marble, others join the chase 
Of self-made stag, or run the emulous race; 
While others, seated on the dappled grass. 
With doleful tales the light-wing'd minutes pass. 
Well I remember how, with gesture starch'd, 
A band of soldiers oft with pride we march'd: 
For banners, to a tall ash we did bind 
Our handkerchiefs, flapping to the whistling wind; 
And for our warlike arms we sought the mead; 
And guns and spears we made of brittle reed; 



8 KIRKE WHITE. 

Then, in uncouth array, our feats to crown. 
We storm'd some ruin'd pig-sty for a town. 

Pleased with our gay disports, the dame was wont 
To set her wheel before the cottage front. 
And o'er her spectacles would often peer. 
To view our gambols, and our boyish gear. 
Still as she look'd, her wheel kept turning round. 
With its beloved monotony of sound. 
When tired with play, we'd set us by her side, 
(For out of school she never knew to chide,) 
And wonder at her skill — well known to fame — 
For who could match in spinning with the dame? 
Her sheets, her linen, which she showed with pride 
To strangers, still her thriftness testified; 
Though we poor wights did wonder much, in troth, 
How 'twas her spinning manufactured cloth. 

Oft would we leave, though well-beloved, our play, 
To chat at home the vacant hour away. 
Many's the time Vve scamper'd down the glade. 
To ask the promised ditty from the maid. 
Which well she loved, as well she knew to sing. 
While we around her form'd a little ring: 
She told of innocence foredoom'd to bleed, 
Of wicked guardians bent on bloody deed, 
Of little children murder'd as they slept; 
While at each pause we wrung our hands and wept. 
Sad was such tale, and wonder much did we, 
Such hearts of stone there in the world could be. 
Poor simple wights, ah! little did we ween 
The ills that wait on man in life's sad scene! 
Ah, little thought that we ourselves should know 
This world's a world of weeping and of woe! 
Beloved moment! then 'twas first I caught 
The first foundation of romantic thought; 



KIRKE WHITE. 

Then first I shed bold Fancy's thrilling tear. 
Then first that poesy charm'd mine infant ear. 
Soon stored with much of legendary lore. 
The sports of childhood charm'd my soul no more. 
V Far from the scene of gaiety and noise. 
Far, far from turbulent and empty joys, 
I hied me to the thick o'er-arching shade. 
And there, on mossy carpet, listless laid, 
While at my feet the rippling runnel ran. 
The days of wild romance antique I'd scan; 
Soar on the wings of fancy through the air. 
To realms of light, and pierce the radiance there. 



THE CHRISTIAD. A DIVINE FOEM. 

BOOK I. 
I. 

I sing the Cross! — Ye white-robed angel choirs. 
Who know the chords of harmony to sweep. 
Ye, who o'er holy David's varying wires 

Were won't, of old, your hovering watch to keep. 
Oh, now descend! and with your harpings deep. 
Pouring sublime the full symphonious stream 

Of music, such as soothes the saint's last sleep. 
Awake my slumbering spirit from its dream, 
And teach me how t' exalt the high mysterious theme. 
II. 
Mourn! Salem, mourn! low lies thine humbled 
state, 
Thy glittering fanes are levell'd with the ground! 
Fallen is thy pride ! — Thine halls are desolate ! 
Where erst was heard the timbrel's sprightly 

sound. 
And frolic pleasures tripped the nightly roimd. 



W KIRKE WHITE. 

There breeds the wild fox lonely, — and aghast 

Stands the mute pilgrim at the void profound, 
Unbroke by noise, save when the hurrying blast 
Sighs, like a spirit, deep along the cheerless waste. 

III. 

It is for this, proud Solymal thy towers 
Lie crumbhng in the dust; for this forlorn 

Thy genius wails along thy desert bowers. 

While stern Destruction laughs, as if in scorn, 
That thou didst dare insult God's eldest born; 

And, with most bitter persecuting ire. 

Pursued his footsteps till the last day-dawn 

Rose on his fortunes — and thou saw'st the fire. 
That came to light the world, in one great flash expire. 

IV. 

Oh! for a pencil dipped in living light, 

To paint the agonies that Jesus bore! 
Oh! for the long-lost harp of Jesse's might. 

To hymn the Saviour's praise from shore to shore; 

While seraph hosts the lofty psean pour, 
And heaven enraptured lists the loud acclaim! 

May a frail mortal dare the theme explore? 
May he to human ears his weak song frame? 
Oh! may he dare to sing Messiah's glorious name? 

V. 

Spirits of pity! mild Crusaders, come! 

Buoyeint on clouds around your minstrel float, 
And give him eloquence who else were dumb. 

And raise to feeling and to fire his note ! 

And thou, Urania! who dost still devote 
Thy nights and days to God's eternal shrine. 

Whose mild eyes 'iumined what Isaiah wrote. 
Throw o'er thy Bard that solemn stole of thine. 
And clothe him for the fight with energy divine. 



KIRKE WHITE. 11 

VI. 

When from the temple's lofty summit prone, 
Satan o'ercome, fell down; and throned there. 

The Son of God confess'd, in splendour shone ; 
Swift as the glancing sunbeam cuts the air, 
Mad with defeat, and yelling his despair, 

« ## :f ^ * H' if 

Fled the stern king of Hell — and with the glare 
Of ghding meteors, ominous and red. 
Shot athwart the clouds that gather'd round his head. 
VII. 
Right o'er the Euxine, and that gulf which late 

The rude Massagetae adored, he bent 
His northering course, while round, in dusky state. 
The' assembling fiends their summon'd troops 

augment ; 
Clothed in dark mists, upon their way they went, 
While, as they pass'd to regions more severe. 

The Lapland sorcerer swell'dwith loud lament 
The solitary gale, and, fill'd with fear. 
The howling dogs bespoke unholy spirits near. 

VIII. 

Where the North Pole, in moody solitude. 

Spreads her huge tracts and frozen wastes around. 

There ice-rocks piled aloft, in order rude, 
Form a gigantic hall, where never sound 
Startled dull Silence' ear, save when profound 

The smoke-frost mutterM: there drear Cold for aye 
Thrones him; and, fix'd on his primeval mound. 

Ruin, the giant, sits; while stern Dismay 
Stalks like some woe-struck man along the desert way. 

IX. 

In that drear spot, grim Desolation's lair. 
No sweet remain of life encheers the sight , 



12 KIRKE WHITE. 

The dancing heart's-blood in an instant there 
Would freeze to marble. — Mingling day and night 
(Sweet interchange, which makes our labours 
light) 
Are there unknown; while in the summer skies 

The sun rolls ceaseless round his heavenly height, 
Nor ever sets till from the scene he flies. 
And leaves the long bleak night of half the year to rise. 
X. 
'Twas there, yet shuddering from the burning lake, 

Satan had fix'd their next consistory. 
When parting last he fondly hoped to shake 
Messiah's constancy — and thus to free 
The powers of darkness from the dread decree 
Of bondage brought by him, and circumvent 

The' unerring ways of Him whose eye can see 
The womb of Time, and, in its embryo pent. 
Discern the colours clear of every dark event. 
XL 
Here the stern monarch stay'd his rapid flight. 

And his thick hosts, as with a jetty pall, 
Hovering, obscured the north star's peaceful light. 
Waiting on wing their haughty chieftain's call. 
He, meanwhile, downward, with a sullen fall. 
Dropped on the echoing ice. Instant the sound 

Of their broad vans was hush'd, and o'er the hall. 
Vast and obscure: the gloomy cohorts bound. 
Till, wedged in ranks, the seat of Satan they surround. 

XII. 

High on a solium of the solid wave, 
Prank'd with rude shapes by the fantastic frost. 

He stood in silence; — now keen thoughts engrave 
Dark flgures on his front ; and, tempest>toss*d. 
He fears to say that every hope is lost. 



KIRKE WHITE. 



IS 



Meanwhile the multitude as death are mute: 

So, ere the tempest on Malacca's coast, 
Sweet Quiet, gently touching her soft lute. 
Sings to the whispering waves the prelude to dispute. 

xin. 

At length collected, o'er the dark Divan 

The arch fiend glanced, as by the Boreal blaze 
Their downcast brows were seen, and thus began 
His fierce harangue: — ' Spirits! our better days 
Are now elapsed: Moloch and Behars praise 
Shall sound no more in groves by myriads trod. 
Lo! the hght breaks! — The astonish'd nations 
gaze! 
For us is lifted high the avenging rod! 
For, spirits, this is He, — this is the Son of God! 

XIV. 

What then! — shall Satan's spirit crouch to fear? 

Shall he who shook the pillars of God's reign 
Drop from his unnerved arm the hostile spear f 

Madness! The very thought would make me fain 

To tear the spanglets from yon gaudy plain. 
And hurl them at their Maker! Fix'd as fate, 

I am his foe ! — Yea, though his pride should deign 
To sooth mine ire with half his regal state. 
Still would I burn with fix'd, unalterable hate. 

XV. 

Now hear the issue of my cursed emprise, 
When from our last sad synod I took flight, 

Buoy'd with false hopes, in some deep-laid disguise, 
To tempt this vaunted Holy One to write 
His own self-condemnation ; in the plight 

Of aged man in the lone wilderness, 

Gathering a few stray sticks, I met his sight, 
2 



14 KIRKE WHITE. 

And, leaning on my staff, seem'-d much to guess 
What cause could mortal bring to that forlorn recess. 

XVI. 

Then thus in homely guise I featly framed 

My lowly speech: — ' Good Sir, what leads this way 
Your wandering steps? must hapless chance be 
blamed 

That you so far from haunt of mortals stray! 

Here have I dwelt for many a lingering day. 
Nor trace of man have seen; but now! methought 

Thou wert the youth on whom God's holy ray 
I saw descend in Jordan, when John taught 
That he to fallen man the saving promise brought. 

XVII. 

• I am that man,' said Jesus, ' I am He! 

But truce to questions — Canst thou point my feet 
To some low hut, if haply such there be 

In this wild labyrinth, where I may meet 

With homely greeting, and may sit and eat; 
For forty days I have tarried fasting here. 

Hid in the dark glens of this lone retreat, 
And now I hunger; and my fainting ear [near.' 
Longs much to greet the sound of fountains gushing 

XVIII. 

Then thus I answer'd wil}?: — ' If, indeed. 

Son of our God thou be'st, what need to seek 

For food from men? — Lo! on these flint stones feed: 
Bid them be bread! Open thy lips and speak, 
And living rills from yon parch'd rock will break.* 

Instant as I had spoke, his piercing eye 

Fix'd on my face; — the blood forsook my cheek, 

I could not bear his gaze; — my mask slipped by; 
I would have shunned his look, but had not power to fly. 



KIRKE WHITE. 15 

XIX. 

Then he rebuked me with the holy word- 
Accursed sounds! but now my native pride 

Return'd, and by no fooHsh quahn deterred, 
I bore him from the mountain's woody side, 
Up to the summit, where extending wide 

Kingdoms and cities, palaces and fanes, 

Bright sparkling in the sunbeams, were descried, 

And in gay dance, amid luxuriant plains. 
Tripped to the jocund reed the' emasculated swains. 

XX. 

* Behold,' I cried, * these glories! scenes divine! 
- Thou whose sad prime in pining want decays. 

And these, rapture! these shall all be thine. 
If thou wilt give to me, not God, the praise. 
Hath he not given to indigence thy days ? 
Is not thy portion peril here and pain ? 

Oh! leave his temples, shun his wounding ways! 
Seize the tiara! these mean weeds disdain: 
Kneel, kneel, thou man of woe, and peace and splen- 
dour gain.' 

xxr. 

* Is it not written,' sternly he replied, 

* Tempt not the Lord thy God!' frowning he spake. 
And instant sounds, as of the ocean tide. 

Rose, and the whirlwind from its prison brake. 
And caught me up aloft, till in one flake. 
The sidelong volley met my swift career, [quake 
And smote me earthward. — Jove himself might 
Af such a fall; my sinews crack'd, and near. 
Obscure and dizzy sounds seem'd ringing in mine ear. 



16 KIRK.E WHITE. 

XXII. 

Senseless and stunned I lay; till, casting round 
My half unconscious gaze, I saw the foe 

Borne on a car of roses to the ground. 
By volant angels; and as sailing slow 
He sunk, the hoary battlement below. 

While on the tall spire slept the slant sunbeam. 
Sweet on the enamour'd zephyr was the flow 

Of heavenly instruments. Such strains oft seem. 
On starlight hill, to soothe the Syrian shepherd's dream* 

XXIII. 

I saw, blaspheming. Hate renew'd my strength; 
I smote the ether with my iron wing. 

And left the' accursed scene. — Arrived at length 
In these drear halls, to ye, my peers! I bring 
The tidings of defeat. Hell's haughty king 

Thrice vanquish'd, baffled, smitten, and dismay'd! 

shame! Is this the hero who could fling 
Defiance at his Maker, while array'd. 

High o'er the walls of light, rebellion's banners play'd! 

XXIV. 

Yet shall not Heaven's bland minions triumph long; 

Hell yet shall have revenge. — glorious sight. 
Prophetic visions on my fancy throng, 

1 see wild Agony's lean finger write 

Sad figures on his forehead! — Keenly bright 
Revenge's flambeau burns! Now in his eyes 

Stand the hot tears, — immantled in the night, 
Lo! he retires to mourn! — I hear his cries! [dies!* 
He faints — he falls — and lo! — 'tis true, ye powers! he 

XXV. 

Thus spake the chieftain ; and as if he view'd 
The scene he pictured, with his foot advanced 



EIRKE WHITE. 17 

And chest inflated, motionless he stood, 
While under his uplifted shield he glanced. 
With straining eye-ball fix'd like one entranced. 
On viewless air; — thither the dark platoon 

Gazed wondering, nothing seen, save when there 
danced 
The northern flash, or fiend late fled from noon, 
Darken'd the disk of the descending moon. 

XXVI. 

Silence crept stilly through the ranks — the breeze 

Spake most distinctly. As the sailor stands. 
When all the midnight gasping from the seas 
^ Break boding sobs, and to his sight expands 

High on the shrouds the spirit that commands 
The ocean-farer's life, — so stiff — so sear 

Stood each dark power; — while through their 
numerous bands 
Beat not one heart; and mingling hope and fear 
New told them all was lost, now bade revenge appear. 

XXVII. 

One there was there, vvhose loud defying tongue 
Nor hope nor fear had silenced, but the swell 

Of over-boiling malice. Utterance long 

His passion mock'd, and long he strove to tell 
His labouring ire ; still syllable none-fell 

From his pale quivering lip., but died away 
For very fury; from each hollow cell 

Half sprang his eyes, that cast a flamy ray. 
And ******* 

XXVIII. 

* This comes,' at length burst from the furious chief, 
'This comes of distant counsels! Here behold 

2* 



18 KIRKE WHITE. 

The fruits of wily cunning! the relief 
Which coward policy would fain unfold, 
To sooth the powers that warred with heaven of 
O wise! potent! sagacious snare! [old! 

And lo! our prince — the mighty and the bold, 
There stands he, spell-struck, gaping at the air. 
While heaven subverts his reign, and plants her 
standard there.' 

XXIX. 

Here, as recover'd, Satan fix'd his eye 

Full on the speaker; dark it was and stern: 
He wrapped his black vest round him gloomily. 

And stood like one whom weightiest thoughts 
concern. 

Him Moloch mark'd, and strove again to turn 
His soul to rage. ' Behold, behold,' he cried, 

* The lord of Hell, who bade these legions spurn 
Almighty rule — behold he lays aside 
The spear of just revenge, and shrinks, by man defied.* 

* . XXX. 

Thus ended Moloch, and his [burning] tongue 
Hung quivering, as if [mad] to quench its heat 

In slaughter. So, his native wilds among, 

The famish'd tiger pants, when, near his seat, 
Press'd on the sands, he marks the traveller's feet. 

Instant low murmurs rose, and many a sword 
Had from its scabbard sprung; but toward the 

Of the arch-fiend all turn'd with one accord, [seat 
As loud he thus harangued the sanguinary horde. 

Ye powers of Hell, I am no coward. I proved thia 
of old: — Who led your forces against the armies of 



KIRKE WHITE. 19 

Jehovah ? Who coped with Ithuriel and the thunders 
of the Almighty ? Who, when stunned and confused 
ye lay on the burning lake, who first awoke, and col- 
lected your scattered powers ? Lastly, who led you 
across the unfathomable abyss to this delightful world, 
and established that reign here which now totters to 
its base ? How, therefore, dares yon treacherous fiend 
to cast a stain on Satan's bravery ? he who preys only 
on the defenceless — who sucks the blood of infants, 
and delights only in acts of ignoble cruelty and un- 
equal contention! Away with the boaster who never 
joins in action, but, like a cormorant, hovers over the 
field, to feed upon the wounded, and overwhelm the 
dymg. True bravery is as remote from rashness as 
from hesitation: let us counsel coolly, but let us exe- 
cute our counselled purposes determinately. In power 
we have learned, by that experiment which lost us 
Heaven, that we are inferior to the Thunder-bearer: 
— In subtlety — in subtlety alone we are his equals. 

Open war is impossible. 

* * * * ** * * 

Thus we shall pierce our conqueror, through the 
Which as himself he loves ; thus if we fall, [race 

We fall not with the anguish, the disgrace 
Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call 
Of vengeance rings within me J Warriors all, 

The word is vengeance, and the spur despair, [pall 
Away with coward wiles! — Death's coal-black 

Be now our standard! — Be our torch the glare 
Of cities fired! our fifes, the shrieks that fill the air! 

Him answering rose Mecashphim, who of old. 
Far in the silence of Chaldea's groves. 

Was worshipped, god of Fire with charms untold 



20 KIRKE WHITE. 

And mystery. His wandering spirit roves, 
Now vainly searching for the flame it loves. 
And sits and mourns like some white-robed sire. 

Where stood his temple, and where fragrant 
And cinnamon unheap'd the sacred pyre, [cloves 
And nightly magi watch'd the everlasting fire 
He waved his robe of flame, he cross'd his breast. 

And, sighing, his papyrus scarf survey 'd. 
Woven with dark characters; then thus address'd 
The troubled council: 

1. 

Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme 

With self-rewarding toil; thus far have sung 
Of gedlike deeds, far loftier than beseem 

The lyre which I in early days have strung; 

And now my spirits faint, and I have hung 
The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour. 

On the dark cypress! and the strings which rung 
With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er. 
Or, when the breeze comes by, moan, and are heard 
no more. 

And must the harp of Judah sleep again ? 

Shall I no more re-animate the lay .' 
Oh! thou who visitest the sons of men, 

Thou who dost listen when the humble pray, 

One little space prolong my mournful day! 
One little lapse suspend thy last decree! 

I am a youthful traveller in. the way. 
And this slight, boon would consecrate to thee 
Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am 
free. 

* # # * *« • • 



KIRKE WHITE. 21 



CHRISTMAS-DAY. 1804. 



Yet once more, and once more, awake, my harp. 
From silence and neglect — one lofty strain. 
Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of heaven. 
And speaking mysteries more than words can tell, 
I ask of thee, for I, with hymnings high, 
Would join the dirge of the departing year. 
Yet with no wintry garland from the woods. 
Wrought of the leafless branch, or ivy sear, 
Wreath I thy tresses, dark December! now; 
Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song. 
And fearful joy to celebrate the day 
Of Ihe Redeemer. — Near two thousand suns 
Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse 
Of generations, since the day-spring first 
Beam'd from on high! — Now to the mighty mass 
Of that increasing aggregate we add 
One unit more. Space, in comparison, ^ 

How small, yet mark'd with how much misery! 
Wars, famines, and the fury Pestilence, 
Over the nations hanging her dread scourge; 
The oppressed, too, in silent bitterness. 
Weeping their sufferance ; and the arm of wrong. 
Forcing the scanty portion from the weak. 
And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears. 

So has the year been character'd with woe. 
In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and crime; 
Yet 'twas not thus He taught — not thus He lived. 
Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer 
And much thanksgiving. — He a man of woes, 
Went on the way appointed, — path, though rude. 
Yet borne with patience still: — He came to cheer 
The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick. 



22 KIRKE WHITE. 

And on the wandering and benighted mind 
To pour the light of truth. — task divine ! 
more than angel teacher! He had words 
To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds: 
And when the soul was toss'd with troubled seas. 
Wrapped in thick darkness and the howling storm, 
He, pointing to the star of peace on high, 
Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile 

At the surrounding wreck. 

When with deep agony his heart was rack'd. 
Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek. 
For them He wept, for them to Heaven He pray'd. 
His persecutors — ' Father, pardon them. 
They know not what they do.' 

Angels of Heaven, 
Ye who beheld Him fainting on the cross. 
And did him homage, say, may mortal join 
The hallelujahs of the risen God ? 
Will the faint voice and groveling song be heard 
Amid the seraphim in light divine? 
Yes, He will deign, the Prince of Peace will deign, 
For mercy to accept the hymn of faith. 
Low though it be and humble. — Lord of life. 
The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now 
Fills my uprising soul! — I mount, I fly 
Far o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs; 
The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes. 
And care, and pain, and sorrow are no more. 



CLIFTON GROVE. A SKETCH IN VERSE. 

Lo! in the west, fast fades the lingering light. 
And day's last vestige takes its silent flight. 



KIRKE WHITE. 23 

No more is heard the woodman's measured stroke 
Which, with the dawn, from yonder dingle broke; 
No more hoarse clamouring o'er the' uplifted head. 
The crows assembling, seek their wind-rock'd bed; 
Still 'd is the village hum — the woodland sounds 
Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds. 
And general silence reigns, save when below 
The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow; 
And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late. 
Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate; 
Or when the sheep-bell, in the distant vale. 
Breathes its wild music on the downy gale. 

Now, when the rustic wears the social smile, 
R^eased from day and its attendant toil. 
And draws his household round their evening fire, 
And tells the oft-told tales that never tire ; 
Or where the town's blue turrets dimly rise. 
And manufacture taints the ambient skies. 
The pale mechanic leaves the labouring loom. 
The air-pent hold, the pestilential room. 
And rushes out, impatient to begin 
The stated course of customary sin; 
Now, now my solitary way I bend 
Where solemn groves in awful state impend; 
And cliffs, that boldly rise above the plain. 
Bespeak, bless'd Clifton! thy sublime domain. 
Here lonely wandering o'er the sylvan bower, 
I come to pass the meditative hour; 
To bid awhile the strife of passion cease, 
And woo the calms of solitude and peace. 
And oh! thou sacred Power, who rear'st on high 
Thy leafy throne where waving poplars sigh! 
Genius of woodland shades! whose mild control 
Steals with resistless witchery to the soul, 



24 KIRKi: WHITE. 

Come with thy wonted ardour, and inspire 

My glowing bosom with thy hallowed fire. 

And thou too. Fancy, from thy starry sphere. 

Where to the hymning orbs thou lend'st thine ear, 

Do thou descend, and bless my ravish' d sight, 

Veil'd in soft visions of serene delight. 

At thy command the gale that passes by 

Bears in its whispers mystic harmony. 

Thou wavest thy wand, and lo ! what forms appear! 

On the dark cloud what giant shapes career! 

The ghosts of Ossian skim the misty vale. 

And hosts of Sylphids on the moon-beams sail. 

This gloomy alcove darkling to the sight. 
Where meeting trees create eternal night; 
Save, when from yonder stream, the simny ray. 
Reflected, gives a dubious gleam of day; 
Recalls, endearing to my alter'd mind. 
Times, when beneath the boxen hedge reclined, 
I watch'd the lapwing to her clamorous brood; 
Or lured the robin to its scatter'd food; 
Or woke with song the Woodland echo wild. 
And at each gay response delighted smiled. 
How oft, when childhood threw its golden ray 
Of gay romance o'er every happy day. 
Here would I run, a visionary boy, 
When the hoarse tempest shook the vaulted sky. 
And fancy-led, beheld the Almighty's form 
Sternly careering on the eddying storm; 
And heard, while awe congeal'd my inmost soul. 
His voice terrific in the thunders roll. 
With secret joy, I view'd with vivid glare 
The volleyed lightnings cleave the sullen air; 
And, as the warring winds around reviled. 
With awful pleasure big — I heard and smiled. 



KIRKE WHITE. 25 

Beloved remembrance ! — Memory which endears 

This silent spot to ray advancing years. 

Here dwells eternal peace, eternal rest. 

In shades like these to live is to be bless'd. 

While happiness evades the busy crowd. 

In rural coverts loves the maid to shroud. 

And thou too. Inspiration, whose wild flame 

Shoots with electric swiftness through the frame. 

Thou here dost love to sit with up-turn'd eye. 

And listen to the stream that murmurs by. 

The woods that wave, the gray owl's silken flight. 

The mellow music of the listening hight. 

Congenial calms more welcome to my breast 

Tikan maddening joy in dazzling lustre dress'd. 

To Heaven my prayers, my daily prayers, I raise, 

That ye may bless my unambitious days. 

Withdrawn, remote from all the haunts of strife. 

May trace with me the lowly vale of life. 

And when her banner Death shall o'er me wave. 

May keep your peaceful vigils on my grave. 

Now as I rove, where wide the prospect grows, 

A livelier light upon my vision flows, 

No more above the' embracing branches meet. 

No more the river gurgles at my feet. 

But seen deep, down the cliff's impending side. 

Through hanging woods, now gleams its silver tiae. 

Dim is my upland path, — across the green 

Fantastic shadows fling, yet oft between 

The chequer'd glooms, the moon her chaste ray sheds. 

Where knots of blue-bells droop their graceful heads. 

And beds of violets blooming 'mid the trees. 

Load witii waste fragrance the noctiurnal breeze. 

Say, why does Man, while to his opening sight 

Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight. 



26 KIRKE WHITE. 

And Nature bids for him her treasures flow. 
And gives to him alone his bliss to know. 
Why does he pant for Vice's deadly charms? 
Why clasp the siren Pleasure to his arms; 
And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath. 
Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death ? 
Could he who thus to vile enjoyment clings. 
Know what calm joy from purer sources springs; 
Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife. 
The harmless pleasures of a harmless life; 
No more his soul would pant for joys impure. 
The deadly chalice would no more allure, 
But the sweet portion he was wont to sip. 
Would turn to poison on his conscious lip. 

Fair Nature! thee, in all thy varied charms. 
Fain would I clasp for ever in my arms! 
Thine are the sweets which never, never sate. 
Thine still remain through all the storms of fate. 
Though not for me, 'twas Heaven's divine cojiimand 
To roll in acres of paterflal land. 
Yet still my lot is bless'd, while I enjoy 
Thine opening beauties with a lover's eye. 

Happy is he, who, though the cup of bliss 
Has ever shunned him when he thought to kiss. 
Who, still in abject poverty or pain. 
Can count with pleasure what small joys remain: 
Though were his sight convey'd from zone to zone. 
He would not find one spot of grouni his own. 
Yet, as he looks around, he cries with glee. 
These bounding prospects all were made for me: 
For me yon waving fields their burden bear, 
For me yon labourer guides the shining share, 
While happy I in idle ease recline, 
And mark the glorious visions as they shine. 



KIRKE WHITE. 27 

This is the charm, by sages often told, 
Converting all it touches into gold. 
Content can soothe, where'er by fortune placed, 
Can rear a garden in the desert waste. 

How lovely, from this hill's superior height. 
Spreads the wide view before my straining sight ! 
O'er many a varied mile of lengthening ground. 
E'en to the blue-ridged hill's remotest bound. 
My ken is borne; while o'er my head serene. 
The silver moon illumes the misty scene ; 
Now shining clear, now darkening in the glade. 
In all the soft varieties of shade. 

Behind me, lo! the peaceful hamlet lies. 
Tile drowsy god has seal'd the cotter's eyes. 
No more, where late the social faggot blazed, 
The vacant peal resounds, by little raised; 
But lock'd in silence, o'er Arion's* star 
The slumbering Night rolls on her velvet car: 
The church-bell tolls, deep-sounding down the glade. 
The solemn hour for walking spectres made; 
The simple plough-boy, wakening with the sound. 
Listens aghast, and turns him startled round. 
Then stops his ears, and strives to close his eyes, 
Lest at the sound some grisly ghost should rise. 
Now ceased the long, and monitory toll. 
Returning silence stagnates in the soul; 
Save when, disturb'd by dreams, with wild affright. 
The deep-mouth'd mastiff bays the troubled night: 
Or where the village ale-house crowns the vale, 
The creeking sign-post whistles to the gale. 

* The Constellation Delphinus. For authority for this 
appellation, vide Ovid's Fasti, B. xi. 113. 



28 KIRKE WHITE. 

A little onward let me bend my way, 

Where the moss'd seat invites the traveller's stay 

That spot, oh! yet it is the very same; 

That hawthorn gives it shade, and gave it name: 

There yet the primrose opes its earliest bloom. 

There yet the violet sheds its first perfume. 

And in the branch that rears above the rest. 

The robin unmolested builds its nest, 

'Twas here, when Hope, presiding o'er my breast, 

In vivid colours every prospect dress'd, 

'Twas here, reclining, I indulged her dreams. 

And lost the hour in visionary schemes. 

Here, as I press once more the ancient seat. 

Why, bland deceiver! not renew the cheat! 

Say, can a few short years this change achieve. 

That thy illusions can no more deceive! 

Time's sombrous tints have every view o'erspread, 

And thou too, gay seducer, art thou fled ? 

Though vain thy promise, and thy suit severe. 

Yet thou couldst guile Misfortune of her tear, 

And oft thy smiles across life's gloomy way. 

Could throw a gleam of transitory day. 

How gay, in youth, the flattering future seems! 

How sweet is manhood in the infant's dreams! 

The dire mistake too soon is brought to light, 

And all is buried in redoubled night. 

Yet some can rise superior to their pain. 

And in their breast the charmer Hope retain: 

While others, dead to feeling, can survey, 

Unmoved, their fairest prospects fade away: 

But yet a few there be, — too soon o'ercast! 

Who shrink unhappy from th^ adverse blast. 

And woo the first bright gleam, which breaks the gloom^, 

To gild the silent shmibers of the tomb. 



KIRKE WHITE. 29 

So in these shades the early primrose blows, 
Too soon deceived by suns and melting snows, 
So falls untimely on the desert waste. 
Its blossoms withering in the northen blast. 

Now pass'd whate'er the upland heights display, 
Down the steep cliff I wind my devious way; 
Oft rousing, as the rustling path I beat, ^ 

The timid hare from its accustom'd seat. 
And oh! how sweet this walk o'erhung with wood. 
That winds the margin of the solemn flood ! 
What rural objects steal upon the sight! 
What rising views prolong the calm delight! 
The brooklet branching from the silver Trent, 
The whispering birch by every zephyr bent. 
The woody island, and the naked mead. 
The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed. 
The rural wicket, and the rural stile, 
And, frequent interspersed, the woodman's pile: 
Above, below, where''er I turn mine eyes. 
Rocks, waters, woods, in grand succession rise. 
High up the cliff the varied groves ascend, 
And mournful larches o'er the wave impend. 
Around, what sounds, what magic sounds, arise. 
What glimmering scenes salute my ravish'd eyes! 
Soft sleep the waters on their pebbly bed, 
The woods wave gently o'er my drooping head, 
And, swelling slow, comes wafted on the wind, 
Lorn Progne's note from distant copse behind. 
Still, every rising sound of calm delight 
Stamps but the fearful silence of the night. 
Save when is heard, between each dreary rest. 
Discordant from her solitary nest, 
The owl, duli-screaming to the wandering moon; 
Now riding, cloud-wrapt, near lier highest noon: 
3* 



30 KIRKK WHITE. 

Or when the wild-duck, southering, hither rides, 
And plunges sullen in the sounding tides. 

How oft, in this sequester'd spot, when youth 
Gave to each tale the holy force of truth. 
Have I long linger'd, while the milk-maid sung 
The tragic legend, till the woodland rung! 
That tale, so sad! which, still to memory dear. 
From its sweet source can call the sacred tear, 
And (lull'd to rest stern Reason's harsh control)" 
Steal its soft magic to the passive soul. 
These hallow'd shades, — these trees that woo the wind. 
Recall its faintest features to my mind, 

A hundred passing years, with march sublime. 
Have swept beneath the silent wing of time, 
Since in yon hamlet's solitary shade, 
Reclusely dwelt the far-famed Clifton maid. 
The beauteous Margaret: for her each swain 
Confess'd in private his peculiar pain. 
In secret sigh'd, a victim to despair, 
Nor dared to hope to win the peerless fair. 
No more the shepherd on the blooming mead. 
Attuned to gaiety his artless reed, 
No more entw'ined the pansied wreath, to deck 
His favourite wether's unpoluted neck. 
But listless, by yon babbling stream reclined 
He mix'd his sobbings with the passing wind, 
Bemoan'd his helpless love; or, boldly bent. 
Far from these smiling fields, a rover v/ent, 
O'er distant lands, in search of ease to roam, 
A self-will'd exile from his native home. 

Yet not to all the maid express'd disdain; 
Her Bateman loved, nor loved the youth in vain. 
Full oft, low whispering o'er these arching boughs, 
The echoing vault responded to their vows. 



KIKKK WHITE. 81 

As here, deep hidden from the glare of day 
Enamour'd oft, they took their secret way. 
Yon bosky dingle, still the rustics name; 
'Twas there the blushing maid confess'd her flame. 
Down yon green lane they oft were seen to hie. 
When evening slumber'd on the western sky. 
That blasted yew, that mouldering walnut bare. 
Each bears mementos of the fated pair. 

One eve, when Autumn loaded every breeze 
With the fallen honours of the morning trees. 
The maiden waited at the' accustom'd bower. 
And waited long beyond tlie' appointed hour. 
Yet Bateman came not: — o'er the woodland drear, 
liowling portentous, did the v/inds career; 
And bleak and dismal on the leafless woods 
The fitful rains rush'd down in sullen floods; 
The night was dark ; as, now and then, the gale 
Paused for a moment — Margaret listen'd, pale ; 
But through the covert to her anxious ear 
No rustling footstep spoke her lover near. [why — 
Strange fears now fill'd her breast — she knew not 
She sigh'd, and Bateman's name was in each sigh. 
She hears a noise, — 'tis he, — he comes at last; — 
Alas! 'twas but the gale which hurried past: 
But now she hears a quickening footstep sound. 
Lightly it comes, and nearer does it bound; 
'Tis Bateman's self, — he springs into her arms, 
'Tis he that clasps, and chides her vain alarms. 
'Yet why this silence? — I have waited long. 
And the cold storm has yell'd the trees among. 
And now thou'rt here my fears are fled — yet speak, 
Why does the salt tear moisten on thy cheek ? 
Say, what is wrong?' — Now, through a parting cloud, 
The pale moon peer'd from her tempestuous shroud, 



32 K.IRKE WHITE. 

And Bateman's face was seen: — 'twas deadly white, 
And sorrow seem'd to sicken in his sight. 
' Oh, speak, my love!' again the maid conjured: 
' Why is thy heart in sullen woe immured ?' 
He raised his head, and thrice essay'd to tell. 
Thrice from his lips the' unfinish'd accents fell; 
"When thus at last reluctantly he broke 
His boding silence, and the maid bespoke: 
' Grieve not, my love, but ere the morn advance, 
■ I on these fields must cast my parting glance ; 
For three long years, by cruel fate's command, 
I go to languish in a foreign land. 
Oh, Margaret ! omens dire have met my view. 
Say, when far distant, wilt thou bear me true ? 
Should honours tempt thee, and should riches fee, 
Wouldst thou forget thine ardent vows to me. 
And, on the silken couch of wealth reclined. 
Banish thy faithful Bateman from thy mind?' 

' Oh! why,' replies the maid, 'my faith thus prove? 
Canst thou — ah! canst thou, then^ suspect my love? 
Hear me, just God! if from my traitorous heart 
My Bateman's fond remembrance e'er shall part, 
If, when he hail again his native shore. 
He find his Margaret true to him no more. 
May fiends of hell, and every power of dread, 
Conjoin'd, then drag me from my perjured bed. 
And hurl me headlong down these awful steeps. 
To find deserved death in yonder deeps!'* 

Thus spake the maid, and from her finger drew 
A golden ring, and broke it quick in two; 



* This part of the Trent is commonly called ' The Clif' 
ton Deeps. ^ 



KIRKE WHITE. 



33 



One half she in her lovely bosom hides, 

The other, trembling, to her love confides. 

* This bind the vow,' she said, * this mystic charm 

No further recantation can disarm; 

The rite vindictive does the fates involve. 

No tears can move it, nor regrets dissolve.' 

She ceased. • The death-bird gave a dismal cry, 
The river moan'd, the wild gale whistled by, 
And once again the I^ady of the Night 
Behind a heavy cloud withdrew her light. 
Trembling she view'd these portents with dismay: 
But gently Bateman kissM her fears away: 
Yet still he felt conceal'd a secret smart, 
StiTl melancholy bodings fill'd his heart. 

When to the distant land the youth was sped, 
A lonely life the moody maiden led. 
Still would she trace each dear, each well-known walk. 
Still by the moonlight to her love would talk, 
And fancy, as she paced among the trees. 
She heard his whispers in the dying breeze. 
Thus two years glided on in silent grief; 
The third her bosom own'd the kind relief: 
Absence had cool'd her love — the' impoverish'd flame 
Was dwindling fast, when lo! the tempter came; 
He offer'd wealth, and all the joys of life, 
And the weak maid became. another's wife! 

Six guilty months had mark'd the false one's crime^ 
When Bateman hail'd once more his native clime: 
Sure of her constancy, elate he came. 
The lovely partner of his soul to claim: 
Light was his heart, as up the well-known way 
He bent his steps — and all his thoughts were gay. 
Oh! who can paint his agonizing throes, 
When on his ear the fatal news arose! 



34 KIRKE WHITE. 

Chill 'd with amazement, senseless with the blow. 
He stood a marble monument of woe; 
Till call'd to all the horrors of despair. 
He smote his brow, and tore his horrent hair; 
Then rush'd impetuous from the dreadful spot. 
And sought those scenes (by memory ne'er forgot,) 
Those scenes, the witness of their growing flame. 
And now like witnesses of Margaret's shame. 
'Twas night — ^he sought the river's lonely shore. 
And traced again their former wanderings o'er. 
Now on the bank in silent grief he stood. 
And gazed intently on the stealing flood; 
Death in his mien and madness in his eye. 
He watch'd the waters as they murmur'd by; 
Bade the base murderess triumph o'er his grave — 
Prepared to plunge into the whelming wave. 
Yet still he stood irresolutely bent, 
Religion sternly stay'd his rash intent. 
He knelt. — Cool play'd upon his cheek the wind. 
And fanned the fever of his maddening mind. 
The willows waved, the stream it sweetly swept, 
The paly moonbeam on its surface slept. 
And all was peace; — he felt the general calm 
O'er his rack'd bosom shed a genial balm: 
When casting far behind his streaming eye. 
He saw the Grove, — in fancy saw her lie. 
His Margaret, luli'd in Germain's* arms to rest, 
And all the demon rose within his breast. 
Convulsive now, he clench'd his trembling hand. 
Cast his dark eye once more upon the land. 
Then at one spring he spurn'd the yielding bank. 
And in the calm deceitful current sank. 

* Germain is the traditionary name of her husband. 



KIRKE WHITE. 35 

Sad on the solitude of night, the sound, 
As in the stream he plunged, was heard around: 
Then all was still — the wave was rough no more. 
The river swept as sweetly as before; 
The willows waved, the moonbeams shone serene. 
And peace returning brooded o'er the scene. 

Now, see upon the perjured fair one hang 
Remorse's gloom and never-ceasing pang. 
Full well she knew, repentant now too late. 
She soon must bow beneath the stroke of fate. 
But for the babe she bore beneath her breast. 
The offended God prolong'd her life unbless'd. 
But fast the fleeting moments rolPd away, 
An'S near and nearer drew the dreaded day — 
That day, foredoom'd to give her child the light. 
And hurl its mother to the shades of night. 
The hour arrived, and from the wretched wife 
The guiltless baby struggled into life. — 
As night drew on, around her bed, a band 
Of friends and kindred kindly took their stand; 
In holy prayer they pass'd the creeping time. 
Intent to expiate her awful crime. * 
Their prayers were fruitless. — As the midnight came, 
A heavy sleep oppress'd each weary frame; 
In vain they strove against the' o'erwhelming load. 
Some power unseen their drowsy lids bestrode. 
They slept, till in the blushing eastern sky 
The blooming morning oped her dewy eye ; 
Then wakening .wide they sought the ravish'd bed, 
But lo! the hapless Margaret was fled; 
And never more the weeping train were doom'd 
To view the false one, in the deeps intomb'd. 

The neighbouring rustics told that in the night 
They heard such screams as froze them with affright; 



36 KIRK.E WHITE. 

And many an infant, at its mother's breast, 

Started, dismay'd, from its unthinking rest. 

And even now, upon the heath forlorn, 

They show the path down which the fair was borne. 

By the fell demons, to the yawning wave — 

Her own, and murderM lover's, mutual grave. 

Such is the tale, so sad, to memory dear, 
Which oft in youth has charm'd my listening ear; 
That tale, which bade me find redoubled sweets 
In the drear silence of these dark retreats, 
And even now, with melancholy power. 
Adds a new pleasure to the lonely hour. 
'Mid all the charms by magic nature given 
To this wild spot, this sublunary heaven. 
With double joy enthusiast Fancy leans 
On the attendant legend of the scenes. 
This sheds a fairy lustre on the floods. 
And breathes a mellow gloom upon the woods; 
This, as the distant cataract swells around. 
Gives a romantic cadence to the sound; 
This, and the deepning glen, the alley green. 
The silver stream, with sedgy tufts between. 
The massy rock, the wood-encompass'd leas. 
The broom-clad islands, and the nodding trees, 
The lengthening vista, and the present gloom. 
The verdant pathway breathing waste perfume; 
These are thy charms, the joys which these impart 
Bind thee, biess'd Clifton! close around my heart. 
Dear native Grovel where'er my devious track. 
To thee will Memory lead the wanderer back. 
Whether in Arno's polish'd vales I stray. 
Or where 'Oswego's swamps' obstruct the day; 
Or wander lone, where, wildering and wide. 
The tumbling torrent laves St. Gothard's side; 



KIRKE WHITE. 37 

Or by old Tejo's classic marge nt muse, 
Or stand entranced with Pyrenean views; 
Still, still to thee, where'er my footsteps roam, 
My heart shall point, and lead the wanderer home. 
When Splendour offers, and when Fame incites, 
I'll pause, and think of all thy dear delights. 
Reject the boon, and, wearied with the change. 
Renounce the wish which first induced to range ; 
Turn to these scenes, these well-known scenes once 

more. 
Trace once again old Trent's romantic shore, 
And, tired with worlds, and all their busy ways. 
Here waste the little remnant of my days. 
Bul^if the Fates should this last wish deny, 
And doom me on some foreign shore to die ; 
Oh! should it please the world's supernal King, 
That weltering waves my funeral dirge shall sing; 
Or that my corpse should, on some desert strand. 
Lie stretch'd beneath the Simoom's blasting hand; 
Still, though unwept I find a stranger tomb, 
My spirit shall wander through this favourite gloom, 
Ride on the wind that sweeps the leafless grove, 
Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove, 
Sit, a lorn spectre on yon well-known grave. 
And mix its meanings with the desert wave. 

TO CONSUMPTION. 

Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head. 
Consumption, lay thine hand! — let me decay, 
Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away, 

And softly go to slumber with the dead. 

And if 'tis true, what holy men have said, 
That strains angelic oft foretell the day 
Of death, to those good men who fall thy prey, 
4 . 



3S 



KIRKE WHITE. 



O et the aerial music round my bed, " 
Dissolving sad in dying symphony, 

Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear: 
That I may bid my weeping friends good-by 

Ere I depart upon my journey drear; 
And, smiling faintly on the painful past, 
Compose my decent head, and breathe my last. 

THE CONSUMPTIVE maiden's SOLILOQUY 

With* what a silent and dejected pace 
Dost thou, wan Moon ! upon thy way advance 
In the blue welkin^s vault! — Pale wanderer! 
Hast thou, too, felt the pangs of hopeless love, 
That thus, with such a melancholy grace. 
Thou dost pursue thy solitary course ? 
Has thy Endymion, smooth-faced boy, forsook 
Thy widow'd breast — on which the spoiler oft 
Has nestled fondly, while the silver clouds 
Fantastic pillow'd thee, and the dim night. 
Obsequious to thy will, encurtain'd round 
With its thick fringe thy couch ? — Wan traveller. 
How like thy fate to mine! — Yet I have still 
One heavenly hope remaining, which thou lack'st— 
My woes will soon be buried in the grave 
Of kind forgetfulness: — my journey here, 
Though it be darksome, joyless, and forlorn. 
Is yet but short, and soon my weary feet 
Will greet the peaceful inn of lasting rest. 
But thou, unhappy Queen! art doom'd to trace 

* With how sad steps, O moon ! thou climb'st the skies. 
How silently and with how wan a face ! 

Sir P. Sidney. 



KIRKE WHITE. 39 

Thy lonely walk in the drear realms of night. 
While many a lagging age shall sweep beneath 
The leaden pinions of unshaken time; 
Though not a hope shall spread its glittering hue 
To cheat thy steps along the weary way. 

O that the sum of human happiness 
Should be so trifling, and so frail withal. 
That when possess'd, it is but lessen'd grief; 
And even then there's scarce a sudden gust 
That blows across the dismal waste of life. 
But bears it from the view! — Oh! who would shun 
The hour that cuts from earth, and fear to press 
The calm and peaceful pillows of the grave. 
And yet endure the various ills of life. 
And dark vicissitudes! — Soon, I hope, I feel, 
And am assured, that I shall lay my head. 
My weary aching head, on its last rest. 
And on my lowly bed the grass-green sod 
Will flourish sweetly. — And then they will weep 
That one so young, and what they 're pleased to call 
So beautiful, should die so soon — And tell 
How painful Disappointment's canker'd fang 
Wither'd the rose upon my maiden cheek. 
Oh foolish ones! why, I shall sleep so sweetly. 
Laid in my darksome grave, that they themselves 
Might envy me my rest! — And as for them. 
Who, on the score of former intimacy. 
May thus remembrance me — they must themselves 
Successive fall. 

Around the winter fire 
(When out-a-doors the biting frost congeals. 
And shrill the skater's irons on the pool 
Ring loud, as by the moonlight he performs 
His graceful evohuions,) they not long 



40"* KIRKE WHITE. 

Shall sit and chat of older times and feats 

Of earlier youth, but silent, one by one. 

Shall drop into their shrouds: — Some, in their age, 

Ripe for the sickle; others young, like me. 

And, falling green beneath the' untimely stroke. 

Thus, in short time, in the churchyard forlorn. 

Where I shall lie, my friends will lay them down, 

And dwell with me, a happy family. 

And oh! thou cruel, yet beloved youth. 

Who now hast left me hopeless here to mourn. 

Do thou but shed one tear upon my corse. 

And say that I was gentle, and deserved 

A better lover, and I shall forgive 

All, all thy wrongs; and then do thou forget 

The hapless Margaret, and be as bless'd 

As wish can make thee — Laugh, and play, and sing, 

With thy dear choice, and never think of me. 

Yet hist, I hear a step. — In this dark wood — 



TO CONTEMPLATION. 

Come, pensive sage, who lovest to dwell 
In some retired Lapponian cell, 
Where, far from noise and riot rude, 
Resides sequester'd Solitude. 
Come, and o'er my longing soul 
Throw thy dark and russet stole, 
And open to my duteous eyes, 
The volume of thy mysteries. 

I will meet thee on the hill, 
Where, with printless footsteps still, 
The morning in her buskin gray 
Springs upon her eastern way; 



KIRKE WHITE. 41 

While the frolic zephyrs stir, 
Playing with the gossamer. 
And, on ruder pinions borne, 
Shake the dew-drops from the thorn. 
There, as o'er the fields we pass. 
Brushing with hasty feet the grass, 
We will startle from her nest 
The lively lark with speckled breast, 
And hear the floating clouds among 
Her gale-transported matin song, 
Or on the upland stile embower'd, 
With fragrant hawthorn snowy flower'd, 
Will sauntering sit, and listen still 
To the herdsmen's oaten quill. 
Wafted from the plain below; 
Or the heifer''s frequent low; 
Or the milkmaid in the grove, 
Singing of one that died for love. 
Or when the noon-tide heats oppress, 
We will seek the dark recess, 
Where, m the embower'd translucent stream. 
The cattle shun the sultry beam, 
And o'er us on the marge reclined, 
The drowsy fly her horn shall wind. 
While Echo, from her ancient oak. 
Shall answer to the woodman's stroke; 
Or the little peasant's son. 
Wandering lone the glens among. 
His artless lip with berries dyed. 
And feet through ragged shoes descried. 
But oh! when evening's virgin queen 
Sits on her fringed throne serene. 
And mingling whispers rising near 
Steal on the still reposing ear: 
4* 



42 KIRKE WHITE. 

While distant brooks decaying round, 

Augment the mix'd dissolving sound, 

And the zephyr flitting bvj 

Whispers mystic harmony, 

We will seek the woody lane, 

By the hamlet, on the plain, 

Where the weary rustic nigh, 

Shall whistle his wild melody, 

And the croaking wicket oft 

Shall echo from the neighbouring croft; 

And as we trace the green path lone, 

With moss and rank weeds overgrown, 

We will muse on pensive lore 

Till the full soul, brimming o'er. 

Shall in our upturned eyes appear, 

Embodied in a quivering tear. 

Or else, serenely silent, set 
By the brawling rivulet, 
Which on its calm unruffled breast 
Bears the old mossy arch impress'd, 
That clasps its secret stream of glass. 
Half hid in shrubs and waving grass, 
The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat, 
Unpress'd by fawn or sylvan's feet, 
WeUl watch, in eve's etherial braid. 
The rich vermilion slowly fade ; 
Or catch, faint twinkling from afar, 
The first glimpse of the eastern star. 
Fair Vesper, mildest lamp of light, 
That heralds in imperial Night ; 
Meanwhile, upon our wandering ear. 
Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear. 
The distant sounds of pastoral lute, 
Invoking soft the sober suit 



KIRKE WHITE. 43 

Of dimmest darkness — ^fitting well 
With love, or sorrow's pensive spell, 
(So erst did music's silver tone 
Wake slumbering Chaos on his throne.) 
And haply then, with sudden swell. 
Shall roar the distant curfew bell, 
While, in the castle's mouldering tower, 
The hooting owl is heard to pour 
Her melancholy song and scare 
Dull silence brooding in the air. 
Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering car, 
Black-suited Night drives on from far. 
And Cynthia, 'merging from her rear, 
Arrests the waxing darkness drear. 
And summons to her silent call. 
Sweeping, in the airy pall. 
The unshrieved ghost, in fairy trance. 
To join her moonshine morrice-dance; 
While around the mystic ring 
The shadowy shapes elastic spring, 
Then with a passing shriek they fly, 
Wrapt in mists, along the sky. 
And oft are by the shepherd seen. 
In his lone night-watch on the green. 

Then, hermit, let us tumour feet 
To the low abbey's still retreat. 
Embower 'd in the distant glen, 
Far from the haunts of busy men, 
Where, as we sit upon the tomb, 
The glow-worm's light may gild the gloom, 
And show to Fancy's saddest eye, 
Where some lost hero's ashes lie. 
And oh, as through the mouldering arch, 
With ivy fiU'd and weeping larch, 



/ 



44 KIRKE WHITE. 

The night-gale whispers sadly clear, 

Speaking drear things to Fancy's ear, 

We'll hold communion with the shade 

Of some deep-wailing, ruin'd maid — 

Or call the ghost of Spenser down, 

To tell of wo and Fortune's frown; 

And bid us cast the eye of hope 

Beyond this bad world's narrow scope. 

Or if these joys, to us denied, 

To linger by the forest's side; 

Or in the meadow, or the wood. 

Or by the lone, romantic flood; 

Let us in the busy town, 

When sleep's dull streams the people drown, 

Far from drowsy pillows flee. 

And turn the church''s massy kej'; 

Then, as through the painted glass 

The moon's faint beams obscurely pass; 

And darkly on the trophied wall, 

Her faint, ambiguous shadows fall, 

Let us, while the faint winds wail 

Through the long reluctant aisle, 

As we pace with reverence meet, 

Count the echoings of our feet; 

While from the tombs, with confess'd breath. 

Distinct responds the voice of death. 

If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend 

Thus on my footsteps to attend. 

To thee my lonely lamp shall burn 

By fallen Genius' sainted urn. 

As o'er the scroll of time I pore. 

And sagely spell of ancient lore. 

Till I can rightly guess of all 

That Plato could to memory call, 



KIRKE WHITE. 45 

And scan the formless views of things. 
Or with old Egypt's fetter'd kings. 
Arrange the mystic trains that shine 
In night's high philosophic mine; 
And to thy name shall e'er belong 
The honours of undying song. 

TO DECEMBER. 

Dark-yisaged visitor, who comest here. 
Clad in thy mournful tunic, to repeat 
(While glooms and chilling rains enwrap thy feet) 

The solemn requiem of the dying year. 

Not undelightful to my listening ear, 
"Sound thy dull showers, as o'er my woodland seat. 
Dismal, and drear, the leafless trees they beat. 

Not undelightful, in their wild career. 

Is the wild music of thy howling blasts, 

Sweeping the grove's long aisle, while sullen Time 

Thy stormy mantle o'er his shoulder casts. 

And, rock'd upon his throne, with chant sublime. 

Joins the full pealing dirge, and Winter weaves 

Her dark sepulchral wreath of faded leaves. 

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. 

Poor little one most bitterly did pain. 

And life's worst ills assail thine early age; 

And, quickly tired with this rough pilgrimage. 
Thy wearied spirit did its heaven regain. 
Moaning, and sickly, on the lap of life 

Thou laid'st thine aching head, and thou didst sigh 

A little while, ere to its kindred sky 
Thy soul return'd, to taste no more of strife! 
Thy lot was happy, little sojourner! 



46 ' KIRKE WHITE. 

Thou hadst no mother to direct thy ways, ' 
And fortune frown'd most darkly on thy days, 

Short as they were. Now, far from the low stir 
Of this dim spot, in heaven thou dost repose, 
And look'st, and smil'st on this world's transient woes. 

ODE. ON DISAPPOINTMENT. 
1. 

Come, Disappointment, come! 

Not in thy terrors clad; 
Come in thy meekest, saddest guise; 
Thy chastening rod but terrifies 
The restless and the. bad. 
But I recline 
Beneath thy shrine. 
And round my brow resigned, thy peaceful cypress 
twine. 

, ^. 
Though Fancy flies away 

Before thy hollow tread. 
Yet Meditation, in her cell, 
Hears with faint eye the lingering knell, 
That tells her hopes are dead; 
And though the tear 
By chance appear, 
Yet she can smile, and say. My all was not laid here. 

3. 

Come, Disappointment, come! 

Though from Hope's summit hurl'd, 
Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven, 
For thou severe wert sent from heaven 

To wean me from the world: 



KIRKE WHITE. 47 

To turn my eye 
From vanity, 
And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. 

4. 

What is this passing scene ? 
A peevish April day! 
. A httle sun — a little rain, 
And then night sweeps along the plain. 
And all things fade away. 
Man (soon discuss'd) 
Yields up his trust. 
And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. 

5. 

Oh, what is Beauty's power? 
It flourishes and dies; 
^ Will the cold earth its silence break. 
To tell how^ soft, how smooth a cheek 
Beneath its surface lies ? 
Mute, miite is all 
O'er Beauty's fall; 
Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. > 

6. 
The most beloved on earth 

Not long survives to-day; bm*>' 
So music past is obsolete, 
And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, 
But now 'tis gone away: 
Thus does the shade 
In memory fade, 
When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid. 

7. 
Then since this world is vain, 
And volatile, and fleet. 



48 KIRKE WHITE. 

Why should I lay up earthly joys, 
Where dust corrupts, and moth destroys, 
And cares and sorrows eat ? 
Why fly from ill 
With anxious skill, 
When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart 
be still ? 

8. 
Come, Disappointment, come! 

Thou art not stern to me; 
Sad Monitress! I own thy sway, 
A votary sad in early day, 
I bend my knee to thee. 
From sun to sun 
My race will run, 
I only bow, and say. My God, thy will be done! 

THE DREAM. 

Fanny! upon thy breast I may not lie! 

Fanny! thou dost not hear me when I speak! 

Where art thou, love ? — Around I turn my eye, 
And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek. 
Was it a dream ? or did my love behold 

Indeed my lonely couch ? — Methought the breath 
Fanned not her bloodless lip; her eye was cold 

And hollow, and the livery of death 
Invested her pale forehead. — Sainted maid! 

My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave. 

Through the long wintry night, when wind and wave 
Rock the dark house where thy poor head is laid. 
Yet, hush! my fond heart, hush! there is a shore 

Of better promise; and I know at last, 

When the long sabbath of the tomb is past, 
We two shall meet in Christ — to part no more. 



KIRKE WHITE. 49 

FOREBODINGS, 

As thus oppress'd with many a heavy care, 
(Though young yet sorrowful,) I turn my feet 
To the dark woodland, longing much to greet 

The form of Peace, if chance she sojourn there; 

Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair, 

Fills my sad breast; and, tired with this vain coil, 
I shrink dismay 'd before life's upland toil. 

And as amid the leaves the evening air 

Whispers still melody — I think ere long. 

When I no more can hear, these woods will speak; 
And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek, 

An4 mournful phantasies upon me throng, 
And I do ponder with most strange delight 
On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night. 

A FRAGMENT. 

—The western gale, 



Mild as the kisses of connubial love. 

Plays round my languid limbs, as all dissolved. 

Beneath the ancient elm's fantastic shade, 

I lie, exhausted wdth the noon-tide heat: 

While rippling o'er his deep-worn pebble bed, 

The rapid rivulet rushes at my feet. 

Dispensing coolness. — On the fringed marge 

Full many a floweret rears its head, — or pink. 

Or gaudy daifodil. — 'Tis here at noon, 

The buskin'd wood-nymphs from the heat retire. 

And lave them in the fountain; here secure 

From Pan, or savage satyr, they disport; 

Or stretch'd supinely on the velvet turf, 

Lull'd by the laden bee, or sultry fly. 

Invoke the god of slumber. * * * 
****** 

5 



50 KIRKE WHITE. 

And, hark! how merrily, from distant tower, 
Ring round the village bells! now on the gale 
They rise with gradual swell, distinct and loud; 
Anon they die upon the pensive ear. 
Melting in faintest music— They bespeak 
A day of jubilee, and oft they bear, 
Commix'd along the unfrequented shore, 
The sound of village dance and tabor loud. 
Startling the musing ear of Solitude. 
Such is the jocund wake of Whitsuntide, 
When happy Superstition, gabbling eld! 
Holds her unhurtful gambols. — All the day 
The rustic revellers ply the mazy dance 
On the smooth-shaven green, and then at eve 
Commence the harmless rites and auguries; 
And many a tale of ancient days goes round. 
They tell of wizard seer, whose potent spells 
Could hold in dreadful thrall the labouring moon. 
Or draw the fix'd stars from their eminence, 
And still the midnight tempest. — Then anon 
Tell of uncharnelled spectres, seen to glide 
Along the lone wood's unfrequented path. 
Startling the 'nighted traveller; while the sound 
Of undistinguish'd murmurs, heard to come 
From the dark centre of the deepening gleij, 
Struck on his frozen ear. 

O'i, Ignorance! 
Thou art fallen man's best friend! With thee he speeds 
In frigid apathy along his way. 
And never does the tear of agony 
Burn down his scorching cheek; or the keen steel 
Of wounded feeling penetrate his breast. 
Even now, as leaning on this fragrant bank, 
I taste of all the keener happiness. 



KIRKE WHITE. 51 

Which sense refined affords. — Even now, my heart 
Would fain induce me to forsake the world. 
Throw off these garments, and in the shepherd's weeds, 
With a small flock, and short suspended reed, 
To sojourn in the woodland. — Then my thought 
Draws such gay pictures of ideal bliss. 
That I could almost err in reason's spite. 
And trespass on my judgment. 

Such is life: 
The distant prospect always seems more fair, 
And when attain'd, another still succeeds. 
Far fairer than before, yet compass'd round 
With the same dangers, and the same dismay. 
Aftd we poor pilgrims in this dreary maze. 
Still discontented, chase the fairy form 
Of unsubstantial Happiness, to find, 
When life itself is sinking in the strife, 
'Tis but an airy bubble and a cheat. 

WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND. 

Fast from the West the fading day-streaks fly. 

And ebon Night assumes her solemn sway, 
Yet here alone, unheeding time I lie. 

And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay. 
Oh! 'tis not long since, George with thee I woo'd. 

The maid of musing by yon moaning wave, 
And hail'd the moon's mild beam, which now renew'd. 

Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave! 
The busy world pursues its boisterous way. 

The noise of revelry still echoes round. 
Yet I am sad while all beside is gay — 

Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound. 
Oh! that, like thee, I might bid sorrow cease. 
And 'neath the green-sward sleep the sleep of peace. 



52 KIRKE WHITE. 

ODE, ADDRESSED TO ft. FUSELI, ESQ. R. A. 

On seeing engravings from his designs. 

Mighty magician! who on Torneo's brow, 

"When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night, 
Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of hght, 

That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below; 

And listen to the distant death-shriek long 
From lonely mariner foundering in the deep. 
Which rises slowly up the rocky steep. 

While the weird sisters weave the horrid song-— 
Or when along the liquid sky 

. Serenely chaunt the orbs on high. 
Dost love to sit in musing trance. 
And mark the northern meteor's dance, 
(While far below the fitful oar 
Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore,) 
And list the music of the breeze,* 
That sweeps by fits the bending seas; 
And often hears with sudden swell 
The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell. 
By the spirits sung, who keep 
Their night-watch on the treacherous deep. 
And guide the wakeful helm's-man's eye 
To Helic6 in northern sky — 
And there upon the rock inclined, 
With mighty visions fill'st the mind. 
Such as bound in magic spell 
Him* who grasp'd the gates of Hell, 

And bursting Pluto's dark domain. 

Held to the day the terrors of his reign — 

* Dante. 



KIRKE WHITE. 53 

<jrenius of Horror and romantic awe, 

Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep, 

Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep, 
Can force the inmost soul to own its law; 

Who shall now, sublimest spirit. 

Who shall now thy wand inherit, 

From him* thy darling child who best 

Thy shuddering images express'd ? 

Sullen of soul, and stern and proud, 

His gloomy spirit spurn'd the crowd. 

And now he lays his aching bead 
In the dark mansions of the silent dead. 
Miffhty magician! long thy wand has lain 

Buried beneath the unfathomable deep; 

And oh ! forever must its efforts sleep ? 
May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain ? 

Oh yes, 'tis his!^-thy other son; 

He throws thy dark-wrought tunic on, 

Fuesslin waves thy wand, — again they rise, 

Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd eyes. 
Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep. 

Where round his head the volley'd lightnings flung, 

And the loud winds that round his pillow run, 
Woo'd the stern infant to the arms of sleep; 

Or on the highest top of TenerifFe 
Seated the foolish boy, and bade him look 

Where, far below, the weather-beaten skiflT 
On the gulf bottom of the ocean strook. 
Thou mark'dst him drink with ruthless ear 

The death-sob, and disdaining rest. 
Thou saw'st how danger fired his breast. 
And in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear. 

* Dante. 
5* 



54 KIRKE WHITE. 

Then, Superstition, at thy call. 

She bore the boy to Odin's Hall, 

And set before his awe-struck sight 

The savage feast and spectred fight; 

And summon'd from his mountain tomb 

The ghastly warrior son of gloom, 

His fabled Runic rhymes to sing. 

While fierce Hresvelger flapped his wing; 

Thou show'dst the trains the shepherd sees. 

Laid on the stormy Hebrides, 

Which on the mists of evening gleam, 

Or crowd the foaming desert stream; 

Lastly, her storied hand she waves, 

And lays him in Florentian caves; 

There milder fables, lovelier themes, 

Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams; 

There Pity's lute arrests his ear. 

And draws the half-reluctant tear; 

And now at noon of night he roves 

Along the embowering moonlight groves; 

And as from many a cavern'd dell 

The hollow wind is heard to swell. 

He thinks some troubled spirit sighs; 

And as upon ,the turf he lies. 

Where sleeps the silent beam of night. 

He sees below the gliding sprite, 

And hears in Fancy's organs sound 

Aerial music warbling round. 

Taste lastly comes and smooth's the whole. 

And breathes her polish o'er his soul; 

Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd heat. 

The wondrous work is now complete. 

The Poet dreams: — the shadow flies. 

And, fainting fast, its image dies. 



KIRKE WHITE. 55 

But lo! the Painter's magic force 

Arrests the phantom's fleeting course: 

It lives — it lives — the canvass glows, 

And tenfold vigour o'er it flows. 
The Bard beholds the work achieved, 

And as he sees the shadow rise, 

Sublime before his wondering eyes, 
Starts at the image his own mind conceived. 

GENIUS. AN ODE. 
I. 1. 

Many there be, who, through the vale of life. 

With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go, 
While jarring discord's inharmonious strife 

Awakes them not to woe. 
By them unheeded, carking Care, 
Green-eyed Grief, and dull Despair; 
Smoothly they pursue their way. 

With even tenor and with equal breath. 
Alike through cloudy and through sunny day. 

Then sink in peace to death. 

II. 1. 

But, ah! a few there be whom griefs devour. 

And weeping Woe, and Disappointment keen, 
Repining Penury, and Sorrow sour. 

And self-consuming Spleen. 
And these are Genius' favourites: these 
Know the thought-throned mind to please. 
And from her fleshy seat to draw 

To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll. 
Disdaining all but 'wildering Rapture's law, 

The captivated soul. 



56 KIRKE WHITE. 

III. 1. 

Genius, from thy starry throne, 

High above the burning zone, 
In radiant robe of light array'd. 
Oh! hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made, 

His melancholy moan. 
He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows, 

Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days, 
Pangs that his sensibility uprouse 

To curse his being and his thirst for praise. 
Thou gavest to him with treble force to feel 

The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scornj 
And, what o'er all does in his soul preside 
Predominant, and tempers him to steel, 
His high indignant pride. 

I. 2. 

Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life, 
That Genius visits not your lowly shed; 
For, ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife 
Distract his hapless head! 
For him awaits no balmy sleep, 
He wakes all night, and wakes to weep; 
Or by his lonely lamp he sits 

At solemn midnight when the peasant sleeps 
In feverish study, and in moody fits 

His mournful vigils keeps. 
II. 2. 
And, oh! for what consumes the watchful oil ? 

For what does thus he waste life's fleeting breath ? 
'Tis for neglect and penury he doth toil, 
'Tis for untimely death. 
Lo! where dejected pale he lies. 
Despair depicted in his eyes, 



KIRKE WHITE. 57 

He feels the vital flame decrease, 

He sees the grave wide-yawning for its prey, 
Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace, 

And cheer the expiring ray. 

III. 2. 

By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame, 
By gentle Otway's magic name, 
By him, the youth, who smiled at death. 
And rashly dared to stop his vital breath. 

Will I thy pangs proclaim; 
For still to misery closely thou'rt allied. 
Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side, 
^ And far-resounding Fame. 

What though to thee the dazzled millions bow. 
And to thy posthumous merit bend them low; 
Though unto thee the monarch looks with awe. 
And thou at thy flash'd car dost nations draw, 
Yet, ah! unseen behind thee fly 

Corroding Anguish, soul-subduing Pain, 
And Discontent that clouds the fairest sky: * 

A melancholy train. 
Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await. 
Mocking thy derided state; 
Thee chill Adversity will still attend. 
Before whose face flies fast the summer friend. 

And leaves thee all forloi'n ; 
While leaden Ignoran-ee rears her head and laughs, 

And fat stupidity shakes his jolly sides, 
And while the cup of affluence he quaffs 
With bee-eyed Wisdom, Genius derides. 
Who toils, and every hardship doth outbrave. 
To gain the meed of praise, when he is mouldering in 
his grave. 



53 KIRKE WHITE. 

■ It 

NEGLECTED GENIUS.* 

Go the the raging sea, and say, ' Be still!' 
Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will ; 
Preach to the storm, and reason with Despair, 
But tell not Misery's son that life is fair. 

Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap hast roll'd. 

And every year with new delight hast told. 

Thou, who recumbent on the lacquer'd barge. 

Hast dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant marge. 

Thou may'st extol life's calm, untroubled sea, 

The storm of misery never burst on thee. 

Go to the mat, where squalid Want reclines. 
Go to the shade obscure, where merit pines; 
Abide with him whom Penury's charms control. 
And bind the rising yearnings of his soul; 
Survey his sleepless couch, and standing there. 
Tell the poor pallid wretch that life is fair! 

Press thou the lonely pillow of his head. 
And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled; 
Mark his dew'd temples, and his half shut eye, 
His trembling nostrils, and his deep-drawn sigh. 
His muttering mouth contorted with despair, 
And ask if Genius could inhabit there. 



* Written impromptu, on reading the following passage in 
Mr. Capel Lofft's Preface to Nathaniel Bloomfield's Poems : 
*' It has a mixture of the sportive, which deepens the impres- 
sion of its melancholy close. I could have wished, as I have 
said in a short note, the conclusion had been otherwise. 
The sours of life less offend my taste than its sweets delight 
it." 



KIRKE WHITE. 59 

Oh, yes! that sunken eye with fire once gleam'd. 
And rays of light from its full circlet stream'd; 
But now Neglect has stung him to the core, 
And Hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more: 
Domestic Anguish winds his vitals round. 
And added Grief compels him to the ground. 
Lo! o'er his manly form, decay 'd and wan. 
The shades of death with gradual steps steal on; 
And the pale mother, pining to decay. 
Weeps for her boy her wretched life away. 

Go, child of Fortune! to his early grave. 

Where o'er his head obscure the rank weeds wave; 

Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her head 

On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed. 

Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there, 

And tell us then that life is wondrous fair ! 

Yet Lofft, in thee, whose hand is still stretch'd forth, 

To' encourage genius, and to foster worth; 

On thee, the unhappy 's firm, unfailing friend, 

'Tis just that every blessing should descend; 

'Tis just that life to thee should only show 

Her fairer side but little mix'd with woefl| 

G0ND0L.INE. A BALLAD. 

The night was still, and the moon it shone 

Serenely on the sea. 
And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock 

They murmur 'd pleasantly. 

When Gondoline rcam'd along the shore, 

A maiden full fair to the sight, 
Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheek, 

And turn'd it to deadly white. 



60 KIRKE WHITE. 

Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear 

It fill'd her faint blue eye, 
As oft she heard, in fancy's ear, 

Her Bertrand's dying sigh. 

Her Bertrand was the bravest youth 

Of all our good king's men, 
And he was gone to the Holy Land 

To fight the Saracen. 

And many a month had pass'd away, 

And many a rolling year. 
But nothing the maid from Palestine 

Could of her lover hear. 

Full oft she vainly tried to pierce 

The ocean's misty face; 
Full oft she thought her lover's bark. 

She on the wave could trace. 

And every night she placed a light 

In the high rock's lonely tower. 
To guide her lover to the land. 

Should the 'murky tempest lower. 

But now despair had seized her breast. 

And sunken in her eye ; 
' Oh! tell me but if Bertrand live. 

And I in peace will die.' 

She wander'd o'er the lonely shore. 

The Curlew scream'd above; 
She heard the scream with a sickening heart. 

Much boding of her love. 



KIRBLE WHITE. 61 

Yet still she kept her lonely way. 

And this was all her cry, 
' Oh! tell nie but if Bertrand live, 

And I in peace shall die.' 

And now she came to a horrible rift. 

All in the rock's hard side, 
A bleak and blasted oak overspread 

The cavern yawning wide. 

And pendent from its disnaal top 

The deadly nightshade hung; 
The hemlock and the aconite 

A^oss the mouth were flung. 

And all within was dark and drear, 

And all without was calm; 
Yet Gondoline entered, her soul upheld 

By some deep-working charm. 

And as she enter 'd the cavern wide. 

The moonbeam gleamed pale, 
And she saw a snake on the craggy rocjn^ 

It clung by its slimy tail. ^^ 

Her foot it slipped^ and she stood aghast. 

She trod on a bloated toad; 
Yet, still upheld by the secret charm. 

She kept upon her road. 

And now upon her frozen ear 

Mysterious sounds arose; 
So, on the mountain's piny top. 

The blustering north wind blows. 
6 



62 KIRKE WHITS. 

Then furious peals of laughter loud 
Were heard with thundering sound. 

Till they died away in soft decay. 
Low whispering o'er the ground. 

Yet still the maiden onward went. 

The charm yet onward led, 
Though each big glaring ball of sight 

Seem'd bursting from her head. 

But now a pale blue light she saw. 

It from a distance came; 
She followed, till upon her sight 

Burst full a flood of flame. 

She stood appall 'd; yet still the charm 

Upheld her sinking soul; 
Yet each bent knee the other smote, 

And each wild eye did roll. 

And such a sight as she saw there, 

No mortal saw before. 
And such a sight as she saw there. 

No mortal^hall see more. 

A burning caldron stood in the 'mid^. 

The flame was fierce and high. 
And all the cave so wide and long 

Was plainly seen thereby. 

And round about the caldron stout 
Twelve withered witches stood: 

Their waists were bound with living snakes, 
And their hair was stifi* with blood. 



K.IKKE WHITE. 63 

Their hands were gory too; and red 

And fiercely flamed their eyes; 
And they were muttering indistinct 

Their hellish mysteries. 

And suddenly they join'd their hands. 

And utter'd a joyous cry. 
And round about the caldron stout 

They danced right merrily. 

And now they stopped; and each prepared 

To tell what she had done, 
Since last the Lady of the Night 

Hfer waning course had run. 

Behind a rock stood Gondoline, 

Thick weeds her face did veil, 
And she lean'd fearful forwarder. 

To hear the dreadful tale. 

The first arose: She said she'd seen 

Rare sport since the blind cat mew'd. 
She'd been to sea in a leaky sieve, m 

And a jovial storm had brew'd. 



She call'd around the winged winds, 

And raised a devilish rout; 
And she laugh'd so loud, the peals were 

Full fifteen leagues about. 



She said there was a little bark 

Upon the roaring wave. 
And there was a woman there who'd been 

To see her husband's grave. 



heardjlj^^ 



64 KIRKE WHITE. 

And she had got a child in her arms, 

It was her only child, 
And oft its little infant pranks 

Her heavy heart beguiled. 

And there was, too, in that same bark, 

A father and his son: 
The lad was sickly, and the sire 

Was old and woe-begone. 

And when the tempest waxed strong. 
And the bark could no more it 'bide. 

She said it was jovial fun to hear 
How the poor devils cried. 

The mother clasp'd her orphan child 

Unto her breast and wept ; 
And sweetly folded in her arms 

The careless baby slept. 

And she told how, in the shape o' the wind, 

As manfully it roar'd, 
She twisted her hand in the infant's hair, 

And threw it overboard. 

And to have seen the mother's pangs, 

'Tvvas a glorious sight to see; 
The crew could scarcely hold her down 

From jumping in the sea. 

The hag held a lock of the hair in her hand, 

And it was soft and fair: 
It must have been a lovely child. 

To have had such lovely hair. 



KIRKE WHITE. 65 

And she said, the father in his arms 

He held his sickly son, 
And his dying throes they fast arose, 

His pains were nearly done. 

And she throttled the youth Mfith her sinewy hands. 

And his face grew deadly blue; 
And his father he tore his thin gray hair. 

And kiss'd the livid hue. 

And then she told, how she bored a hole 

In the bark, and it fill'd away: 
And 'twas rare to hear, how some did swear. 

And some did vow and pray. 

The man and woman they soon were dead. 

The sailors their stresgth did urge ; 
But the billows that beat were their winding-sheet, 

And the winds sung their funeral dirge. 

She threw the infant's hair in the fire, 

The red flame flamed high. 
And round about the caldron stout 

They danced right merrily. 

The second begun: She said she had done 
That task that Queen Hecat' had set her, 

And that the devil, the father of evil, 
Had never accomplish'd a better. 

She said, there was an aged woman, 

And she had a daughter fair. 
Whose evil habits fill'd her heart 

With misery and care. 
6* 



•k 



66 



KIRKE WHITE. 



The daughter had a paramour, 

A wicked man was he, 
And oft the woman him against 

Did murmur grievously. 

And the hag had work'd the daughter up 

To murder her old mother. 
That then she might seize on all her goods. 

And wanton with her lover. 

And one night as the old woman 

Was sick and ill in bed, 
And pondering solely on the life 

Her wicked daughter led. 

She heard her footsteps on the floor, 

And she raised her pallid head. 
And she saw her daughter, with a knife. 

Approaching to her bed. 

And said. My child, I'm very ill, 

I have not long to live. 
Now kiss my cheek, that ere I die 

Thy sins I may forgive. 

And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek, 
And she lifted the sharp bright knife. 

And the mother saw her fell intent, 
And hard she begged for life. 

But prayers would nothing her avail. 
And she scream'd aloud with fear; 

But the house was lone, and the piercing screams 
Could reach no human ear. 



KIRKE WHITE. 6? 



y 



And though that she was sick and old, . 

She struggled hard, and fought ; 
The murderess cut three fingers through 

Ere she could reach her throat. 

And the hag she held the fingers up, 
The skin was mangled sore. 

And they all agreed a nobler deed 
Was never done before. 

And she threw the fingers in the fire, 

The red flame flamed high, 
And round about the caldron stout 

J'hey danced right merrily. 

The third arose: She said she'd been 

To Holy Palestine ; 
And seen more blood in one short day. 

Than they had all seen in nine. 

Now Gondoline, with fearful steps. 

Drew nearer to the flame, 
For much she dreaded now to hear 

Her hapless lover's name. 

The hag related then the sports 

Of that eventful day, 
When on the well-contested field 

Full fifteen thousand lay. 

She said that she in human gore 

Above the knees did wade, 
And that no tongue could truly tell 

The tricks she there had played. 



68 KIRKE WHITE. 

There was a gallant-featured youth, 

Who like a hero fought; 
He kiss'd a bracelet on his wrist, 

And every danger sought. 

And in a vassal's garb disguised. 

Unto the knight she sues. 
And tells him she from Britain comes. 

And brings unwelcome news. 

That three days ere she had embark'd. 

His love had given her hand 
Unto a wealthy Thane- -and thought 

Him dead in Holy Land. 

And to have seen how he did writhe 

When this her tale she told. 
It would have made a wizard's blood 

Within his heart run cold. 

Then fierce he spurred his warrior's steed. 

And sought the battle's bed: 
And soon, all mangled o'er with wounds, 

He on the cold turf bled. 

And from his smoking corse she tore 

His head, half clove in two: 
She ceased, and from beneath her garb 

The bloody trophy drew. 

The eyes were starting from their socks, 
The mouth it ghastly grinned. 

And there was a gash across the brow, 
The scalp was nearly skinned. 



KIRKE WHITE. 69 

'Twas Bertrand's Head!! With a terrible scream> 

The maiden gave a spring. 
And from her fearful hiding-place jj 

She fell into the ring. 

The lights were fled — the caldron sunk — 

Deep thunders shook the dome, 
And hollow peals of laughter came 

Resounding through the gloom. 

Insensible the maiden lay 

Upon the hellish ground, 
And still mysterious sounds were heard 
^t intervals around. 

She woke — she half arose — and wild. 

She cast a horrid glare: 
The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled, 

And all was stillness there. 

And through an awning in the rock, 

The moon it sweetly shone, 
Andshow'd a river in the cave. 

Which dismally did moan. 

The stream was black, it sounded deep. 

As it rush'd the rock's between, 
It ofFer'd well, for madness fired 

The breast of Gondoline. 

She plunged in, the torrent moan'd 

With its accustom'd sound, 
And hollow peals of laughter loud 

Again rebellow'd round. 



70 KIRKE WHITE. 

The maid was seen no more. — But oft 

Her ghost is known to glide, 
At midnight's silent, solemn hour. 

Along the ocean's side. 

ODE, TO THE HARVEST MOON. 



Cum ruit imbriferum ver: 



Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum 
Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent: 

Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret. 

Virgil. 

Moon of harvest, herald mild 
Of plenty, rustic labour's child, 
Hail! oh hail! I greet thy beam, 
As soft it trembles o'er the stream. 
And gilds the straw-thatch'd hamlet wide. 
Where innocence and peace reside; 
'Tis thou that glad'st with joy the rustic throng. 
Promptest the tripping dance, the exhilarating song. 

Moon of Harvest, I do love 

O'er the uplands now to rove, 

While thy modest ray serene 

Gilds the wide surrounding scene; 

And to watch thee riding high 

In the blue vault of the sky. 
Where no thin vapour intersects thy ray, 
But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way 

Pleasing 'tis, oh! modest Moon! 
Now the night is at her noon, 



KIRKE WHITE. 71 



'Neath thy sway to musing lie, 
While around the zephyrs sigh, 
Fanning soft the sun-tanned wheat, 
Ripen'd by the summer's heat; 

Picturing all the rustic's joy 

When boundless plenty grteta his eye. 

And thinking soon. 

Oh! modest moon! 
How many a female eye will roam 

Along the road, 

To see the load. 
The last dear load of harvest-home. 

Storms and tempests, floods and rains. 

Stern despoilers of the plains, 

Hence away, the season flee, 

Foes to light-heart jollity: 

May no winds, careering high. 

Drive the clouds along the sky. 
But may all nature smile with aspect boon. 
When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh, 
Harvest Moon! 

'Neath yon lowly roof he lies. 
The husbandman, with sleep-seal'd eyes; 
He dreams of crowded barns, and round 
The yard he hears the flail resound; 
Oh! may no hurricane destroy 
His visionary views of joy! 
God of the winds! oh, hear his humble prayer. 
And while the Moon of harvest shines, thy blustering 
whirlwind spare. 



i 



72 KIRKE WHITE. 

Sons of luxury, to you 

Leave I Sleep's dull power to woo: 

Press ye still the downy bed, 

While feverish dreams surround your head j 

I will seek the woodland glade. 

Penetrate the thickest shade. 

Wrapped in Contemplation's dreams. 

Musing high on holy themes, 

While on the gale 

Shall softly sail 
The nightingale's enchanting tune. 

And oft my eyes 

Shall grateful rise 
To thee, the modest Harvest Moon! 

THE HERMIT OF THE DALE. 

Where yonder woods in gloomy pomp arise, 
Embower'd, remote, a lowly cottage lies; 
Before the door a garden spreads, where blows 
Now wild, once cultivate, the brier rose; 
Though choked with weeds, the lily there will peer. 
And early primrose hail the nascent year; 
There to the walls did jessamine wreaths attach. 
And many a sparrow twitter'din the thatch, 
While in the woods that wave their heads on high 
The stock-dove warbled murmuring harmony. 

There, buried in retirement, dwelt a sage, 
Whose reverent locks bespoke him far in age ; 
Silent he was, and solemn was his mien, 
And rarely on his cheek a smile Was seen. 
The village gossips had full many a tale 
About the aged "jhermit of the dale:" 
•Some called him wizard, some a holy seer. 
Though all beheld him with an equal fear. 



E'IRKE WHITE. 73 

And many a stout heart had he put to flight. 
Met in the gloomy wood-walks late at night. 

Yet well, I ween, the sire was good of heart, 
Nor could to aught one heedless pang impart; 
His soul was gentle, but he'd known of woe. 
Had known the world, nor longer wish'd to know. 
Here, far retired from all its busy ways, 
He hoped to spend the remnant of his days; 
And here, in peace, he till'd his little ground. 
And saw, unheeded, years revolving round. 
Fair was his daughter as the blush of day. 
In her alone his hopes and wishes lay; 
His only care, about her future hfe. 
When death should call him from the haunts of strife. 
Sweet was her temper, mild as summer skies, 
When o'er their azure no thin vapour flies; 
And but to see her aged father sad. 
No fear, no care, the gentle Fanny had. 

Still at her wheel the live-long day she sung. 
Till with the sound the lonesome woodlands rung. 
And, till usurp'd, his long unquestion'd sway 
The solitary bittern wing'd its way. 
Indignant rose, on dimal pinions borne. 
To find, untrod by man, some waste forlorn; 
Where, unmolested, he might hourly wail. 
And with his screams still load the heavy gale. 

Once as I stray'd at eve the woods among. 
To pluck wild strawberries, I heard her song; 
And heard, enchanted — oh! it was so soft. 
So sweet, I thoiight the cherubim aloft, 
Were quiring to the spheres. Now the full not* 
Did on the downy wings of silence float 
Full on the ravish 'd sense, then died away, 
Distantly on the ear, in sweet decjiy, 
7 



74 KIRKE WHITE. 

Then first I knew the cot; the simple pair; 
Though soon become a welcome inmate there: 
At eve, I still would fly to hear the lay, 
Which Fanny to her lute was wont to piay; 
Or with the Sire, would sit and talk of war — 
For wars he'd seen, and bore full many a scar — 
And oft the plan of gallant siege he drew. 
And loved to teach me all the arts he knew. 



HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP. 
I. 

O Lord, another day is flown, 

And we, a lonely band. 
Are met once more before thy throne, 

To bless thy fostering hand. 

11. 

And wilt thou bend a listening ear 

To praises low as ours ? 
Thou wilt! for thou dost love to hear 

The song which meekness pours. 

III. 
And, Jes-us, thou thy smiles wilt deign, 

AfiJ we before th^e pray; 
For thou didst bless the infant train, 

And we are less than they. 

IV 

P let thy grace perform its part. 
And let contention cease; 

And shed abroad in every heart 
Thine everlasting peace! 



KIRKE WHITE. 76 

V. 

Thus chasten 'd cleansed, entirely thine, 

A flock by Jesus led, 
The Sun of Holiness shall shine 

In glory on our head. 

VI. 

And thou wilt'turn our wandering feet. 

And thou wilt bless our way, 
Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet 

The dawn of lasting day. 

HYMN. 

Through sorrow's night, and danger's path. 

Amid the deepening gloom, 
We, soldiers of an injured king. 

Are marching to the tomb. 

There, where the turmoil is no more. 

And all our powers decay. 
Our cold remains in solitude 

Shall sleep the years away. 

Our labours done, securely laid 

In this our last retreat, 
Unheeded, o''er our silent dust, 

The storms of earth shall beat. 

Yet not thus lifeless, thus inane, 

The vital spark shall lie, 
For o'er life's wreck that spark shall rise 

To seek its kindred sky. 



16 KIRKE WHITE. 

These ashes too, this little dust. 
Our Father's care shall keep, 

Till the last angel rise, and break 
The long and dreary sleep. 

Then love's soft dew o'er every eye 

Shall shed its mildest rays, 
And the long silent dust shall burst 

With shouts of endless praise. 

ODE TO LIBERTY. 

Hence to thy darkest shades, dire Slaverer, hence! 

Thine icy touch can freeze, 

Swift as the polar breeze. 
The proud defying port of human sense. 

Hence to thine Indian cave. 
To where the tall canes whisper o'er thy nest. 

Like the murmuring wave 
Swept by the dank wing of the rapid west; 

And at the night's still noon, 
The lash'd Angolan, in his grated cell, 

Mix'd with the tiger's yell, 
Howls to the dull ear of the silent moon. 

But come, thou goddess, blithe and free, 
Thou mountain-maid, sweet Liberty! ' 

With buskin'd knee, and bosom bare, 
Thy tresses floating in the air; 
Come, — and treading on thy feet, 
Independence let me meet, 
Thy giant mate, whose awful form 
Has often braved the bellowing storm; 
And heard its angry spirit shriek, 
Rear'd on some promontory's beak. 



RIRKE WHITE. 77 

Seen by the lonely fisher far. 
By the glimpse of flitting star. 
His awful bulk, in dusky shroud, 
Commixing with the pitchy cloud; 
While at his feet the lightnings play, 
And the deep thunders die away. 
Goddess, come, and let us sail 
On the fresh reviving gale ; 
O'er dewy lawns, and forests lone, 
Till lighting on some mountain stone. 
That scales the circumambient sky, 
We see a thousand nations lie. 
From Zembla's snows to Afric's heat. 
Prostrate beneath our frolic feet. 

From Italy's luxuriant plains, 
Where everlasting summer reigns. 
Why, goddess, dost thou turn away ? 
Didst thou never sojourn there ? 
Oh, yes, thou didst — but fallen is Rome, 
The pilgrim weeps her silent doom. 
As at midnight murmuring low, 
x\long the mouldering portico, 
He hears the desolate wind career. 
While the rank ivy whispers near. 

Ill-fated Gaul! ambition's grasp 
Bids thee again in slavery gasp; 
Again the dungeon walls resound 
The hopeless shriek, the groan profound. 
But, lo, in yonder happy skies, 
Helvetia's airy mountains rise. 
And, oh, on her tall cliffs reclined. 
Gay Fancy, whispering to the mind, 
7* 



78 KIRKE WHITE 

As the wild herdsman's call is heard, 

Tells me, that she, o'er all preferred, 

In every clime, in every zone. 

Is liberty's divinest throne. 

Yet, whenoe that sigh ? goddess, say, 

Has the tyrant's thirsty sway 

Dared profane the sacred seat. 

Thy long high-favour'd, best retreat ? 

It has! it has! away, away, 

To where the green isles woo the day, 

Where thou art still supreme, and where 

Thy pasans fill the floating air. 



TO LOVE. 

I. 

Why should I blush to own I love ? 
'Tis Love that rules the realms above 
Why should I blush to say to all. 
That virtue holds my heart in thrall i 

II. 

Why should I seek the thickest shade. 
Lest Love's dear secret be betray'd ? 
Why the stern brow deceitful move. 
When I am languishing with love ? 

III. 

Is it weakness thus to dwell 
On passion that I dare not tell ? 
Such weakness I would ever prove ; 
'Tis painful, though 'tis sweet, to love. 



KIRKE WHITE. 79 



THE LULLABY. 



Of a Female Convict to her Childy the JVtght pre- 
vious to Execution. 

Sleep, baby mine,* enkerchieft on my bosom/ 
Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast; 

Sleep, baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother 
To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest. 

Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining ? 

Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled; 
Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning, 

And I would fain compose my aching head. 

Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy weeping. 
When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be: 

Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's sleeping 
In her low grave of shame and infamy ! 

Sleep, baby mine — To-morrow I must leave thee 
And I would snatch an interval of rest: 

Sleiep these last moments, ere the laws bereave thee, 
For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast. 

MAN THE WORST ENEMY OF MAN. 

In every clime, from Lapland to Japan, 

This truth's confess'd — That man's worst foe is man. 

The ravening tribes, that crowd the sultry zone. 

Prey on all kinds and colours but their own. 

Lion with lion herds, and pard with pard, 

Instinct's first law their covenant and guard. 

* Sir Philip Sidney has a poem beginning " Sleep, Baby 
mine." 



80 KIRp:E WHITE. 

But man alone, the lord of every clime, 
Whose port is godlike, and whose power sublime, 
Man, at whose birth the' Almighty hand stood still 
Pleased with the last great effort of his will; 
Man, man alone, no tenant of the wood, 
Preys on his kind, and laps his brother's blood; 
His fellow leads, where hidden pit-falls lie, 
And drinks with ecstasy his dying sigh. 

ODE TO MIDNIGHT. 

Season of general rest, whose solemn still 
Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill, 

But speaks to philosophic souls delight. 
Thee do 1 ha"il, as at my casement high, 
My candle waning melancholy by, 

I sit and taste the holy calm of night. 
Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails. 
And gilds the misty shadows of the vales. 

Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame, 
To her, while all around in sleep recline, 
Wakeful I raise my orisons divine, 

And sing the gentle honours of her name; 
While Fancy lone o'er me her votary bends, 
To lift my soul her fairy vision sends, 

And pours upon my ear her thrilling song. 
And Superstition's gentle terrors come, 
See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom! 

See round yon churchyard elm what spectres throng! 
Meanwhile I tune to some romantic lay 
My flageolet — and, as I pensive play. 

The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene: 
The traveller late journeying o'er the moors 
Hears them aghast — (while still the dull owl pours 

Her hollow screams each dreary pause between,) 



KIRKE WHITE. 81 

Till in the lonely tower he spies the light 
Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night, 

Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep. 
And 'mid the dreary solitude, serene. 
Cast a much meaning glance upon the scene. 

And raise my mournful eye to heaven, and weep. 

FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE MOON. 
I. 

Mild orb, who floatest through the realm of night, 

A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild, 
Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light. 

Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguiled. 
Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat, 
Nocturnal Study's still retreat, 
It casts a mournful melancholy gleam, 

And through my lofty casement weaves. 
Dim through the vine's encircling leaves. 
An intermingled beam. 

II. 

These feverish dews that on my temples hang. 

This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame: 
These the dread signs of many a secret pang. 

These are the meed of him who pants for fame ! 
Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my soul ; 

Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high; 
My lamp expires; — Beneath thy mild control, 

These restless dreams are ever wont to fly. 

Come, kindred mourner, in my breast 
Soothe these discordant tones to rest. 



82 KIRKE WHITE. 

And breathe the soul of peace ; 
Mild visitor, I feel thee here, 
It is not pain that brings this tear. 

For thou hast bid it cease. 

Oh! many a year has pass'd away 
Since I, beneath thy fairy ray. 

Attuned my infant reed; 
When wilt thou, Time, those days restore. 
Those happy moments now no more — 

When on the lake's damp marge I lay. 

And mark'd the northern meteor's dance> 
Bland Hope and Fancy, ye were there 
To inspirate my trance. 

Twin sisters, faintly now ye deign 
Your magic sweets on rae to shed ; 
In vain your powers are now essay'd 
To chase superior pain. 

And art thou fled, thou welcome orb ? 

So swiftly pleasure flies; 
So to mankind, in darkness lost, 

The beam of ardour dies. 
Wan Moon, thy nightly task is done. 
And now, encurtain'd in the main. 

Thou sinkest into rest; 
But I, in vain, on thorny bed 

Shall woo the god of soft repose — 



TO THE MOON. WKITTEKT IN NOVEMBER. 

Sublime, emerging from the misty verge 
Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail, 



KIRKE WHITE. 83 

As sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale 
Seems to repeat the year's funeral dirge. 
Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight. 

And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely way, 
Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night. 

With double joy my homage do I pay. 

When clouds disguise the glories of the day, 
And stern November sheds her boisterous blight. 

How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray 
Shoot through the mist from the ethereal height. 

And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring 

The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring. 

* MOONLIGHT IN EGYPT. 

How beautiful upon the element 

The Egyptian moonlight sleeps; 
The Arab on the bank hath pitch'd his tent; 

The light wave dances, sparkling o'er the deeps; 
The tall reeds whisper in the gale. 
And o'er the distant tide moves slow the silent sail. 

Thou mighty Nile! and thou receding main. 
How peacefully ye rest upon your shores. 
Tainted no more, as when from Cairo's towers, 
Roll'd the swoln corse by plague! the monster! slain. 
Far as the eye can see around, 
Upon the solitude of waters wide, 
There is no sight, save of the restless tide — 
Save of the winds, and waves, there is no sound. 

Egyptia sleeps, her sons in silence sleep! 

Ill-fated land, upon thy rest they come — 
The' invader, and his host. Behold the deep 

Bears on her farthest verge the dusky gloom — 



S4 KIRKE WHITE. 

And now they rise, the masted forests rise 
And gallant, through the foam, their way they make. 
Stem Genius of the Memphian shores, awake — 

The foeman in thy inmost harbour lies. 
And ruin o'er thy land with brooding pennon flies. 

TO THE MORNING. 

Written during illness: 

Beams of the day-break faint! I hail 
Your dubious hues, as on the robe 
Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe, 

I mark your traces pale. 
Tired with the taper's sickly light. 
And with the wearying, number'd night, 

I hail the streaks of morn divine : 
And lo! they break between the dewy wreaths 
That round my rural casement twine: 
The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes; 
It fans my feverish brow, — it calms the mental strife. 
And cheerily re-illumes the lambient flame of life. 

The lark has her gay song begun. 

She leaves her grassy nest. 
And soars till the unrisen sun 

Gleams on her speckled breast. 

Now let me leave my restless bed. 
And o'er the spangled uplands tread; 

Now through the custom'd wood-walk wend; 
By many a green lane lies my way. 

Where high o'er head the wild briers bend, 
Till on the mountain's summit gray, 
I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day. 



KIRKE WHITE. 85 

Oh, Heaven! the soft refreshmg gale 

It breathes into my breast ! 
My sunk eye gleams; my cheek, so pale, 

Is with new colours dress 'd. 

Blithe Health! thou soul of life and ease! 
Come thou too, on the balmy breeze. 

Invigorate my frame: 
I'll join with thee the buskin'd chase. 
With thee, the distant clime will trace. 

Beyond those clouds of flame. 

Above, below, what charms unfold 

In all the varied view; 
igpfore me all is burnish'd gold. 

Behind the twilight's hue. 
The mists which on old Night await. 
Far to the west they hold their state. 

They shun the clear blue face of Morn, 

Along the fine cerulian sky, 

The fleecy clouds successive fly, [adorn. 

While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds 
And hark! the thatcher has begun 

His whistle on the eaves. 
And oft the hedger's bill is heard 

Among the rustling leaves. 
The slow team cracks upon the road. 

The noisy whip resounds. 
The driver's voice, his carol blithe, 
The mower's stroke, his" whetting sythe, 

Mix'd with the morning's sounds. 
Who would not rather take his seat 

Beneath these clumps of trees. 
The early dawn of day to greet, 

And catch the healthy breeze, 
8 



86 KIRKE WHITE. 

Than on the silent couch of Sloth 

Luxurious to lie ? 
Who would not from life's dreary waste 
Snatch, when he could, with eager haste. 

An interval of joy ? 

To him who simply thus recounts 

The morning's pleasures o'er, 
Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close 

To ope on him no more. 
Yet, Morning! unrepining still. 

He'll greet thy beams awhile; 
And surely thou, when o'er his grave 
Solemn the whispering willows wave. 

Wilt sweetly on him smile; 
And the pale glow-worm's pensive light [night. 
Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless 

ODE TO THE MORNING STAR. 

Many invoke pale Hesper's pensive sway. 
When rest supine leans o'er the pillowing clouds. 

And the last tinklings come 

From the safe-folded flock. 

But me, bright harbinger of coming day, 
Who shone the first on the primaeval morn; 

Me thou delightest more — 

Chastely luxuriant. 

Let the poor silken sons of slothful pride 
Press now their downy couch in languid ease» 

While visions of dismay 

Flit o'er their troubled brain. 



KIRKE WHITE. 87 

Be mine to view awake to nature's charms, 
Thy paly flame evanish frpm the sky, 

As gradual day usurps 

The welkin's glowing bounds. 

Mine to snufFup the pure ambrosial breeze 
Which bears aloft the rose-bound car of morn, 

And mark his early flight 

The rustling sky-lark wing. 

And thou, Hygeia, shalt my steps attend. 
Thou, whom distracted, I so lately wooed 

As on my restless bed 

Slow past the tedious night; 

And slowly, by the taper's sickly gleam 
Drew my dull curtain; and with anxious eye 

Strove through the veil of night 

To mark the tardy morn. 

Thou, Health, shalt bless me in my early walk. 
As o'er the upland slope I brush the dew. 

And feel the genial thrill 

Dance in my lighten 'd veins. 

And as I mark the Cotter from his shed 

Peep out with jocund face — thou, too, Content, 

Shalt steal into my breast. 

Thy mild, thy placid sway. 

Star of the morning! these, thy joys, I'll share, 
As rove my pilgrim feet the sylvan haunts; 

While to thy blushing shrine 

Due orisons shall rise. 



• 



88 KIRKE WHITE. 

MUSIC. 

O give me music — for my soul doth faint; 

I am sick of noise and care, and now mine ear 
Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint. 

That may the- spirit from its cell unsphere. 

Hark how it falls! and now it steals along. 
Like distant bells upon the lake at eve. 

When all is still ; and now it grows more strong. 
As when the coral train their dirges weave. 

Mellow and many-voiced; where every close. 

O'er the old minster roof, in echoing waves reflows. 

Oh! I am rapt aloft. My spirit soars 

Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind. 

Lo ! angels lead me to the happy shores. 
And floating paeans fill the buoyant wind. 

Farewell! base earth, farewell! my soul is freed, 

Far from its clayey cell it springs — 



THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES. 

Who is it leads the planets on their dance — 
The mighty sisterhood ? Who is it strikes 
The harp of universal harmony ? 

Hark! 'tis the voice of planets on their dance. 
Led by the arch-contriver. Beautiful 
The harmony of order! How they sing! 
The regulated orbs upon their path 
Through the wide trackless ether sing, as though 
A siren sat upon each glittering gem, 
4nd made fair music — such as mortal hand 
Ne'er raised on the responding chords; more like 



KIRKE WHITE. 89 

The mystic melody that oft the bard 
Hears in the strings of the suspended harp, 
Touch'd by some unknown beings that reside 
In evening breezes, or, at dead of night. 
Wake in the long, shrill pauses of the wind. 

This is the music which, in ages hushed, 
Ere the Assyrian quaffed his cups of blood, 
Kept the lone Chald awake, when through the night 
He watch 'd his herds. The solitary man. 
By frequent meditation, learned to spell 
Yon sacred volume of high mystery. 
He could arrange the wandering passengers. 
From the pale star, first on the silent brow 
Of-the meek-tressed Eve, to him who shines. 
Son of the morning, orient Lucifer: 
Sweet were to him, in that unletter'd age, 
The openings of wonder. He could gaze 
Till his whole soul was fill'd with mystery, 
And every night wind was a spirit's voice, 
And every far-oiFmist, a spirit's form: 
So with fables, and wild romantic dreams 
He mix'd his truth, and couch 'd in symbols dark. 
Hence, blind idolatry arose, and men 
Knelt to the sun, or at the dead of night 
Pour'd their orisons to the cloud-wrapt moon. 
Hence, also, after ages into stars 
Transform'd their heroes; and the warlike chief, 
With fond eye fix'd on some resplendent gem. 
Held converse with the spirits of his sires: — 
With other eyes than these did Plato view 
The heavens, and, fill'd with reasonings sublime, 
Half-pierced, at intervals, the mystery. 
Which with the gospel vanish'd, and made way 
For noon-day brightness. * * * * 
8* 



90 KIRKE WHITE. 

MUSINGS AT NIGHT. 

pale art thou, my lamp, and faint 

Thy melancholy ray: 
When the still night's unclouded sajnt 

Is walking on her way. 
Through my lattice leaf-embower'd. 
Fair she sheds her shadowy beam, 
And o'er my silent sacred room, 
Casts a checker'd twilight gloom; 
I throw aside the learned sheet, 

1 cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly sweet 

Sad vestal, why art thou so fair. 
Or why am I so frail ? 

Methinks thou lookest kindly on me, Moon, 

And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards; 
Surely like me thou'rt sad, but dost not speak 

Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd; 
So mournfully composed, o'er yonder cloud 
Thou shinest, like a cresset, beaming far 
From the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic wave 



NELSONI MORS. 

Yet once again, my Harp, yet once again. 
Htk One ditty more, and on the mountain ash 
Up I will again suspend thee. I have felt 

The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last, 

At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd, 

I woke to thee the melancholy song. 

Since then with TJwughtfulness, a maid severe, 

I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks 

Of frolic fancy to the line of truth; 



KIRKE WHITE. 



91 



Not unrepining, for my froward heart 
Still turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flow 
Of spring-gales past — the woods and storied haunts 
Of my not songless boyhood. — Yet once more, 
Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones, 
My long neglected Harp. — He must not sink; 
The good, the brave — he must not, shall not sink 
"Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

Though from the Muse's chahce I may pour 
No precious dews of Aganippe's well, 
Or Castaly, — though from the morning cloud 
I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse; 
Yet I will wreath a garland for his brows, 
OjC simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scent 
Of Britain, my loved country; and with tears 
Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe 
Thy honour'd corse, my A''elson, tears as warm 
And honest as the ebbing blood that flow'd 
Fast from thy honest heart. — Thou, Pity, too, 
If ever I have loved, with faltering step. 
To follow thee in the cold and starless night. 
To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff*; 
And as I heard the deep gun bursting loud 
Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd 
Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds, 
The dying soul's viaticum; if oft 
Amid the carnage of the field I've sate 
With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung 
To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul. 
With mercy and forgiveness — visitant 
Of heaven — sit thou upon my harp. 
And give it feeling, which were else too cold 
For argument so great, for theme so high. 



I 



92 KIRKE WHITK. 

How dimly on that morn the sun arose. 
Kerchief d in mists, and tearful, when 



PASTORAL SONG. 

Come, Anna! come, the morning dawns, 

Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies: 
Come, let us seek the dewy lawns. 
And watch the early lark arise; 
While nature, clad in vesture gay. 
Hails the loved return of day. 

Our flocks that nip the scanty blade 

Upon the moor, shall seek the vale; 
And then, secure beneath the shade. 
We'll listen to the throstle's tale; 
And watch the silver clouds above. 
As o'er the azure vault they rove. 

Come, Anna! come, and bring thy lute, 

That with its tones, so softly sweet. 
In cadence with my mellow flute. 
We may beguile the noontide heat ; 
While near the mellow bee shall join. 
To raise a harmony divine. 



And then at eve, when silence reigns, 

Except when heard the beetle's hum 
We'll leave the sober-tinted plains, 

To these sweet heights again we'll come; 
And thou to thy soft lute shalt play 
A solenm vesper to departing day. 



KIRKE WHITE. 93 

THE PIOUS MAN. 

The pious man. 
In this bad world, when mists and couchant sAorms 
Hide heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faith 
Above the clouds that threat him, to the fields 
Of ether, where the day is never veil'd 
With intervening vapours; and looks down 
Serene upon the troublous sea, that hides 
The earth's fair breast; that sea whose nether face 
To grovelling mortals frowns and darkness all ; 
But on whose billowy back, from man conceal'd, 
The glaring sunbeam plays 

" I AM PLEASED, AND YET i'm SAD." 
I. 

When twilight steals along the ground. 
And all the bells are ringing round, 

One, twOj three, four, and five, 
I at my study- window sit. 
And, wrapped in many a musing fit, i 

To bliss am all alive. 

II. 

But though impressions calm and sweet v^ 

Thrill round my heart a holy heat, 'ifl 

And I am inly glad, ^^' 

, The tear-drop stands in either eye. 
And yet I cannot tell thee why, 
I am pleased, and yet I'm sad. 

III. 

The silvery rack that flies away 
Like mortal life or pleasure's ray. 



94 KIRKE WHITE. 

Does that disturb my breast ? 
Nay, what have I, a studious man, 
To do with life's unstable plan, 

Or pleasure's fading vest ? 
IV. 
Is it that here I must not stop. 
But o'er yon blue hill's woody top 

Must bend my lonely way ? 
No, surely no ! for give but me 
My own fire-side, and I shall be 

At home where'er I stray. 

V. 

Then is it that yon steeple there, 
With music sweet shall fill the air. 

When thou no more canst hear ? 
Oh, no! oh, no! for then forgiven, 
I shall be with my God in heaven. 

Released from every fear. 
VI. 
Then whence it is I cannot tell. 
But there is some mysterious spell 

That holds me when I'm glad; 
And so the tear-drop fills my eye. 
When yet in truth I know not why. 

Or wherefore I am sad. 

TO POESY. 

Yes, my stray steps have wander 'd, wandier'd far 
From thee, and long, heart-soothing Poesy! 
And many a flower, which in the passing time 
My heart hath register'd, nipped by the chill 
Of undeserved neglect, hath shrunk and died. 
Heart-soothing Poesy! — Though thou hast ceased 



KIRKE WHITE. 95 

To hover o'er the many-voiced strings 

Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still 

Call the warm tear from its thrice-hallow'd cell. 

And with recalled images of bliss 

Warm my reluctant heart. — Yes, I would throw. 

Once more would throw, a quick and hurried hand 

O'er the responding chords. — It hath not ceased — 

It cannot, will not cease; the heavenly warmth 

Plays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek; 

Still, though imbidden, plays.— Fair Poesy! 

The summer and the spring, the wind and rain. 

Sunshine and storm, with various interchange. 

Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month, 

Sinoe by dark wood, or hamlet far retired. 

Spell-struck, with thee I loiter 'd. — Sorceress! 

I cannot burst thy bonds ! — It is but lift 

Thy blue eyes to that deep-bespangled vault. 

Wreathe thy enchanted tresses round thine arm. 

And mutter some obscure and charmed rhyme. 

And I could follow thee, on thy night's work, 

Up to the regions of thrice-chastened fire. 

Or in the caverns of the ocean flood 

Thrid the light mazes of thy volant foot. 

Yet other duties call me, and mine ear 

Must turn away ; from the high minstrelsy 

Of thy soul-trancing harp, vmwillingly 

Must turn away ; there are severer strains, 

(And surely they are sweet as ever smote 

The ear of spirit, from this mortal coil 

Released and disembodied,) there are strains, 

Forbid to all, save those whom solemn thought, 

Through the probation of revolving years. 

And mighty converse with the spirit of truth, 

Have purged and purified. — To these my soul 



96 K-IRKE WHITE. 

Aspireth; and to this sublimer end 
I gird myself, and climb the toilsome steep 
With patient expectation.-^ — Yea, sometimes 
Foretaste of bliss rewards me ; and sometimes 
Spirits unseen upon my footsteps wait. 
And minister strange music, which doth seem 
Now near, now distant, now on high, now low. 
Then swelling from all sides, with bliss complete. 
And full fruition filling all the soul. 
Surely such ministry, though rare, may soothe 
The steep ascent, and cheat the lassitude 
Of toil; and but that my fond heart 
Reverts to day-dreams of the summer gone, 
"When by clear fountain, or embowered brake, 
I lay a listless muser, prizing, far 
Above all other lore, the poet's theme; 
But for such recollections I could brace 
My stubborn spirit for the arduous path 
Of science unregretting; eye afar 
Philosophy upon her steepest height. 
And with bold step, and resolute attempt. 
Pursue her to the innermost recess, 
Where throned in light she sits, the Queen of Truth. . 
******* 

Hush'd is the lyre — the hand that swept 

The low and pensive wire?, 

Robbed of its cunning, from the task retires. 
Yes — it is still — the lyre is still; 

The spirit which its slumbers broke 

Hath pass'd away, — and that weak hand that woke 

Its forest melodies hath lost its skill. 
Yet I would press you to my lips once more. 
Ye wild, ye withering flowers of poesy: 
Yet would I drink the fragrance which ye pour. 



KIRKE WHITE. 97 



Mix'd with decaying odours; for to me 
Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy, 
As in the wood-paths of my native — 



TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! 

Whose modest form, so delicately ne, • 

Was nursed in whirling storms. 

And cradled in the winds; 

Thee when young Spring first question'd Winter's 

sway. 
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight. 

Thee on this bank he threw 

To mark his victory. 

In this low vale, the promise of the year. 
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale. 

Unnoticed and alone. 

Thy tender elegance. 

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms 
Of chill adversity, in some lone walk 

Of life she rears her head. 

Obscure and unobserved; 

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows. 
Chastens her spotless purity of breast. 

And hardens her to bear 

Serene the ills of life. 

RAMBLES WITH A FRIEND, 

To yonder hill, whose sides, deform'd and steep, 
Just yield a scanty sustenance to the sheep, 
9 



98 KIRKK WHITE. 

With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped. 

To see the sunrise from his healthy bed ; 

To watch the aspiect of the summer morn, 

Smiling upon the golden fields of corn. 

And taste delighted of superior joys, 

Beheld through Sympathy's enchanted eyes: 

With silent admiration oft we view'd 

.The myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave strewd; 

The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade. 

Round which the silvery sun-beam glancing play'd, 

And the round orb itself, in azvure throne. 

Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone; 

We mark'd delighted, how with aspect gay. 

Reviving Nature, hail'd returning day; 

Mark'd how the flowerets rear'd their drooping heads. 

And the wild lambkins bounded o'er the meads. 

While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight. 

The birds sung paeans to the source of light : 

Oft have we watch'd the speckled lark arise. 

Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies. 

And rise, and rise, till the pain'd sight no more 

Could trace him in his high aerial tour; 

Though on the ear, at intervals, his song 

Came wafted slow the wavy breeze along; 

And we have thought how happy were our lot, 

Bless'd with some sweet, some solitary cot. 

Where, from the peep of day, till russet eve 

Began in every dell her forms to weave. 

We might pursue our sports from day to day 

And in each other's arms wear life away. 

At sultry noon, too, when our toils were done. 
We to the gloomy glen were wont to run; 
There on the turf we lay, while at our feet 
The cooling rivulet rippled softly sweet; 



KIRKE WHITE. 



99 



And mused on holy theme, and ancient lore. 

Of deeds, and days, and heroes now no more; 

Heard, as his solemn harp Isaiah swept, 

Sung woe unto the wicked land — and wept; 

Or, fancy-led, saw Jeremiah mourn 

In solemn sorrow o'er Judea's urn. 

Then to another shore perhaps would rove. 

With Plato talk in his Ilyssian grove; 

Or, wandering wheire the Thespian palace rose. 

Weep once again o'er fair Jo casta 's woes. 

Sweet then to us was that romantic band. 
The ancient legends of our native land — 
Chivalric Britomart, and Una fair, 
And courteous Constance, doom'd to dark despair. 
By turns our thoughts engaged; and oft we talk'd 
Of times when monarch Superstition stalk 'd. 
And when the blood-fraught galliots of Rome 
Brought the grand Druid fabric to its doom, 
While, where the wood-hung Meinai's waters flow. 
The hoary harpers pour'd the strain of woe. 

While thus employ'd, to us how sad the bell 
Which summon'd us to school! 'Twas Fancy's knell, 
And, sadly sounding on the sullen ear. 
It spoke of study pale, and chilling fear. 
Yet even then, (for oh! what chains can bind. 
What powers control, the energies of mind!) 
Even tnen we soar d to many a height sublime. 
And many a day-dream charm'd the lazy time. 

At evenmg, too, how pleasing was our walk, 
Endear'd by Friendship's unrestrained talk, 
When to the upland heights we bent our way. 
To view the last beam of departing day;. 
How calm was all around! no playful breeze 
Sigh'd 'mid the wavy foliage of the trees; 



100 KIRKE WHITE. 

But all was still, save when, with drowsy song, 

The gray fly wound his sullen horn along; 

And save when, heard in soft, yet merry glee. 

The distant chureh-bells' mellow harmony; 

The silver mirror of the lucid brook, 

That 'mid the tufted broom its still course took; 

The ruggid arch, that clasp 'd its silent tides. 

With moss and rank weeds hanging down its sides 

The craggy rock, that jutted on the sight; 

The shrieking bat, that took its heavy flight; 

All, all was pregnant with divine delight. 

We loved to watch the swallow swimming high. 

In the bright azure of the vaulted sky; 

Or gaze upon the clouds, whose colour'd pride 

Was scatter'd thinly o'er the welkin wide, 

And tinged with such variety of shade, 

To the charm'd soul sublimest thoughts convey'd. 

In these what forms romantic did we trace, 

While Fancy led us o'er the realms of space! 

Now we espied the Thunderer in his car. 

Leading the embattled seraphim to war; 

Then stately towers descried, sublimely high. 

In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky — 

Or saw, wide stretching o'er the azure height, 

A ridge of glaciers in mural white. 

Hugely terrific. — But those times are o'er. 

And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no more 

For thou art gone, and I am left below. 

Alone to struggle through this world of woe. 

The scene is o'er — still seasons onward roll. 
And each revolve conducts me toward the goal; 
Yet all is blank, without one soft relief. 
One endless continuity of grief; 
And the tired soul, now led to thoughts sublime. 
Looks but for rest beyon J the bounds of time. 



KIREE WHITE. 101 

RISIGNATION. 

Yes, 'twill be over soon — This sickly dream 

Of life will vanish from my feverish brain; 
And death my wearied spirit will redeem 

From this wild region of unvaried pain. 
Yon brook will glide as softly as before, — 
Yon landscape smile, — yon golden harvest grow, — 
Yon sprightly lark on mounting wing will soar 

When Henry's name is heard no more below. 
I sigh when all my youthful friends caress. 

They laugh in health, and future evils brave: 
Them shall a wife and smiling children bless. 

While I am mouldering in my silent grave. 
God of the just — Thou gavest the bitter cup; 
I bow to thy behest, and drink it up, 

TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE. 

Oh! thou who, in my early youth. 
When fancy wore the garb of truth, 
Wert wont to win my infant feet. 
To some retired, deep-fabled seat. 
Where, by the brooklet's secret tide. 
The midnight ghost was known to glide; 
Or lay me in some lonely glade, 
In native Sherwood's forest shade. 
Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold. 
Was wont his sylvan courts to hold; 
And there, as musing deep I lay. 
Would steal my little soul away. 
And all thy pictures represent. 
Of seige and solemn tournament; 
Or bear me to the magic scene, 
Where, clad in greaves and gaberdine, 



102 KIRKE WHITE. 

The warrior knight of chivalry 
Made many a fierce enchanter flee ; 
And bore the high-born dame away. 
Long held the fell magician's prey; 
Or oft would tell the shuddering tale 
Of murders, and of goblins pale. 
Haunting the guilty baron's side, 
(Whose floors with secret blood were dyed,) 
Which o'er the vaulted corridore 
' On stormy nights was heard to roar, 
By old domestic, waken'd wide 
By the angry winds that chide; 
Or else the mystic tale would tell 
Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell. 



TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.* 
I. 

Sweet-scented flower! who art wont to bloom 

On January's front severe. 

And o'er the wintry desert drear 
To waft thy waste perfume ! 
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now. 
And I will bind thee round my brow; 

And as I twine the mournful wreath, 
I'll weave a melancholy song; 
And sweet the strain shall be and long. 

The melody of death. 

* The Rosemary buds in January. It is the flower com- 
monly put in the coffins of the dead. 



KIRKE WHITE. lOS 

II. 

Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell 
With the pale corse in lonely tomb. 
And throw across the desert gloom 

A sweet decaying smell. 
Come, press my lips, and lie with me 
Beneath the lowly alder tree. 

And we shall sleep a pleasant sleep, 
And not a care shall dare intrude 
To break the marble solitude 

So peaceful and so deep. 

III. 

And hark! the wind-god, as he flies. 

Moans hollow in the forest trees, 

And sailing on the gusty breeze, 
Mysterious music dies. 
Sweet flower! that requiem wild is minci 
It warns me to the lonely shrine, 
The cold turf altar of the dead; 

My grave shall be in yon lone spot. 

Where as I lie, by all forgot, 
A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes sned. 



THE Savoyard's return. 

I. 

Oh! yonder is the well-known spot. 
My dear, my long-lost native home ! 

Oh! welcome is yon little cot. 

Where I shall rest, no more to roam I 

Oh! I have travelled far and wide, 
0''er many a distant foreign land; 



104 KIRKE WHITE. 

Each place, each province J have tried, 
And sung and danced my saraband; 
But all their charms could not prevaii 
To steal my heart from yonder vale. 

II. 

Of distant climes the false report 

Allured me from my native land; 
It bade me rove — my sole support 

My cymbals and my saraband. 
The woody dell^ the hanging rock. 

The chamois skipping o'er the heights, 
The plain adorn'd with many a flock, 

And, oh! a thousand more delights. 
That grace yon dear beloved retreat, 
Have backward won my weary feet. 

III. 

Now safe return'd, with wandering tired. 

No more my little home I'll leave! 
And many a tale of what I've seen 

Shall while away the winter's eve. 
Oh! I have wander'd far and wide. 

O'er many a distant foreign land; 
Each place, each province I have tried, , 

And sung and danced my saraband; 
But all their charms could not prevail 
To steal my heart from yonder vale. 

ON BEING CONFINED TO SCHOOL, ONE PLEASANT 
MORNING IN SPRING.* 

The morning sun's enchanting raya 
Now call forth every songster's praise; 

* Written at the age of Thirteen. 



KIRKE WHITE. 106 

Now the lark with upward flight. 
Gaily usher's in the light ; 
While wildly warbling from each tree. 
The birds sing songs to Liberty. 
But for me no songster sings, 
For me no joyous lark upsprings; 
For I, confined in gloomy school. 
Must own the pedant's iron rule, 
And, far from sylvan shades and bowers. 
In durance vile must pass the hours; 
There con the scholiast's dreary lines. 
Where no bright ray of genius shines, '^ 

And close to rugged learning cling, 
'While laughs around the jocund spring. 

How gladly would my soul forego 
All that arithmeticians know, 
Or stiff gramarians quaintly teach. 
Or all that industry can reach. 
To taste each morn of all the joys 
That with the laughing sun arise; 
And unconstrain'd to rove along 
The bushy brakes and glens among; 
And woo the muse's gentle power. 
In unfrequented rural bower! 
But ah! such heaven-approaching joys 
Will never greet my longing eyes; 
Still will they cneat in vision fine. 
Yet never but in fancy shine. 

Oh that I were the little wren 
That shrilly chirps from yonder glen ! 
Oh, far away I then vv'ould rove. 
To some secluded bushy grove ; 



Ift6 KIRKE WHITE 

There hop and sing with careless glev 
Hop and sing at liberty; 
And till death should stop my lays, 
Far from men would spend my days. 

THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG TO THE 
NIGHT. 

Xhou, spirit of the spangled night! 
I woo thee from the watch-tower high. 
Where thou dost sit to guide the bark 
A Of lonely mariner. 

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds. 
The distant main is moaning low; 
Come, let us sit and weave a song — 
A melancholy song! 

Sweet is the scented gale of morn, 
And sweet the noontide's fervid beam, 
But sweeter far the solemn calm, 
That marks thy mournful reign. 

I've pass'd here many a lonely year, 
And never human voice have heard; 
I've pass'd here many a lonely year 
A solitary man. 

And I have linger'd in the shade, 
From sultry noon's hot beam; and I 
Have knelt before my wicker door. 
To sing my evening song. 

And I have hail'd the gray morn high. 
On the blue mountain's misty brow. 



KIRKE WHITE. 101 

And tried to tune my little reed 
To hymns of harmony. 

But never could I tune my reed, 
At morn, or noon, or eve, so svi^eet. 
As when upon the ocean shore 
I hail'd thy star-beam mild. 

The day-spring brings not joy to me. 
The moon it whispers not of peace; 
But oh! when darkness robes the heavens, 
My woes are mix'd with joy. 

And then I talk, and often think 
Aerial voices answer me; 
And oh! I am not then alone — 
A solitary man. 

And when the blustering winter winds 
Howl in the woods that clothe my cave, 
I lay me on my lonely mat. 

And pleasant are my dreams. 

And Fancy gives me back my wife; 
And Fancy gives me back my child; 
She ogives me back my little home. 
And all its placid joys. 

Then hateful is the morning hour. 
That calls me from the dream of bliss. 
To find myself still lone, and hear 
The same dull sounds again. 

The deep-toned winds, the moamng sea. 
The whispering of the boding trees, 



l08 KIRKE WHITE. 

The brook's eternal flow, and oft 
The Condor's hollow scream. 



THE SHOWER. 

Or should the day be overcast. 
We'll linger till the shower be past; 
Where the hawthorn's branches spread 
A fragrant covert o'er the head. 
And list! the rain-drops beat the leaves, 
Or smoke upon the cottage eaves; 
Or silent dimpling on the stream 
Convert to lead its silver gleam; 
jA.nd we will muse on human life, 
And think, f/om all the storms of strife, 
How sweet to find a snug retreat 
Where we may hear the tempests beat, 
Secure and fearless, and provide 
Repose for life's calm eventide. 

SOLITUDE. 

It ismot that my lot is low. 
That bids this silent tear to flow; 
It is not grief that bids me moan. 
It is that I am all alone. 

In woods and glens I love to roam. 
When the tired hedger hies him home; 
Or by the woodland pool to rest. 
When pale the star looks on its breast. 

Yet when the silent evening sighs, 
With hallow'd airs and symphonies. 
My spirit takes another tone, 
And sighs that it is all alone. 



KIRKE WHITE. 109 

The autumn leaf is sear and dead, 
It floats upon the water's bed; 
I would not be a leaf, to die 
Without recording sorrow's sigh! 

The woods and winds, with sudden wail, 
Tell all the same unvaried tale ; 
I've none to smile when I am free, 
And when I sigh, to sigh with me. 

Yet in my dreams a form I view, 
That thinks on me, and loves me too; 
I start, and when the vision's flown. 
I weep that I am all alone. 



If far from me the Fates remove 
Domestic peace, connubial love. 
The prattling ring, the social cheer. 
Affection's voice, affection's tear. 
Ye sterner powers, that bind the heart, 
To me your iron aid impart ! 

teach me, when the nights are chill ; 
And my fire-side is lone and chill, 
When to the blaze that crackles near, 

1 turn a tired and pensive ear, 

And Nature conquering bids me sigh 
For love's soft accents whispering nigh; 

teach me, on that heavenly road, 
That leads to Truth's occult abode, 
To wrap my soul in dreams divine. 
Till earth and care no more be mine. 
Let bless'd Philosophy impart 

Her soothing measures to my heart; 
And while with Plato's ravish'd cars 

1 list the music of the spheres, 

10 



110 KIRKE WHITE. 

Or on the mystic symbols pour, 
That hide the Chald's sublimer lore, 
I shall not brood on summers gone, 
Nor think that I am all alone. 

ON RURAL SOLITUDE. 

When wandering, thoughtful, my stray steps at eve 
(Released from toil, and careless of their way) 
Have reach'd, imwillingly, some rural spot 
AVhere quiet dwells in cluster'd cottages. 
Fast by a wood, or on the river's marge, 
I have sat down upon the shady stile. 
Half wearied with the long and lonesome walk, 
And felt strange sadness steal upon the heart, 
And unaccountable. — The rural smells 
And sounds spake all of peacefulness and home; 
The lazy mastiff, who my coming eyed, 
Half balancing 'twixt fondness and distrust, 
Recalled some images, now half forgot, 
Of the warm hearth at eve, when flocks were penned, 
And cattle housed, and every labour done. 
And as the twilight's peaceful hour closed in. 
The spiral smoke ascending from the thatch. 
And the eve sparrow's last retiring chirp. 
Have brought a busy train of hovering thoughts 
To recollection — rural offices 
In younger days and happier times perform'd. 
And rural friends, now with their grave-stones carved. 
And tales which wore away the winter's night 
Yet fresh in memory — then my thoughts assimie 
A different turn, and I am e'en at home. 
That hut is mine ; that cottage half-embower'd 
With modest jessamine, and that sweet spot 
Of garden ground, where, ranged in neat array, 



KIRKE WHITE. Ill 

Grow countless sweets, the wall-flower and the pink, 
And the thick thyme-bush — even that is mine; 
And that old mulberry that shades the court 
Has been my joy from very childhood up. 



MAN NOT MADE FOR SOLITUDE. 

Man was-not made to pine in solitude, 
Ensepulchred, and far from converse placed, 
Not for himself alone, untamed and rude, 
To live the Bittern of the desert waste; 
It is not his (by manlier virtue graced) 
To fJbre upon the noontide brook, and sigh, 
And weep for aye o'er sorrow unefiaced; 
Him social duties call the tear to dry. 
And wake the nobler powers of usefulness to ply. 

The savage broods that in the forest shroud, 

The Pard and Lion mingle with their kind; 

And oh! shall man, with nobler powers endow'd, 

Shall he, to nature's strongest impulse blind^ 

Bury in shades his proud immortal mind ? 

Like the sweet flower, that on some steep rock thrown, 

Blossoms forlorn, rock'd by the mountain wind, 

A little while it decks the rugged stone, 

Then, withering, fades away, unnoticed and unknown! 

SONG. 

Oh that I were the fragrant flower that kisses 
My Arabella's breast that heaves on high; 

Pleased should I be to taste the transient blisses. 
And on the melting throne to faint, and idie. 



112 KIRKE WHITE. 

Oh that I were the robe that loosely covers 
Her taper limbs, and Grecian form divine; 

Or the entwisted zones, like meeting lovers. 
That clasp her waist in many an aery twine. 

Oh that my soul might take its lasting station 
In her waved hair, her perfumed breath to sip; 

Or catch by chance, her blue eyes' fascination. 
Or meet, by stealth, her soft vermilion lip. 

But, chain'd to this dull being, I must ever 
Lament the doom by which I'm hither placed; 

Must pant for moments I must meet with never. 
And dream of beauties I must never taste. 

SO]VG. 

Softly, softly blow, ye breezes, 

Gently o'er my Edwy fly! 
Lo! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly; 
Softly, zephyrs, pass him by! 
My love is asleep. 
He lies by the deep, 
All along where the salt waves sigh. 

II. 

I have cover'd him with rushes, 

Water-flags, and branches dry. 
Edwy, long have been thy slumbers; 
Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye! 
My love is asleep, 
He lies by the deep, 
All along where the salt waves sigh. 

III. 
Still he sleeps; he will not waken, 
Fastly closed is his eye; 



KIRKE WHITE. 118 

Paler is his cheek, and chiller 
Than the icy moon on high. 
Alas! he is dead, 
He has chose his deathbed 
All along where the salt waves sigh. 

IV. 

Is it, is it so, my Edwy ? 

Will thy slumbers never fly ? 
Couldst thou think I would survive thee ? 
No, my love, thou bidd'st me die; 
Thou biddest me seek ^ 

Thy deathbed bleak 
All along where the salt Waves sigh. 

V. 

I will gently kiss thy cold lips, 

On thy breast I'll lay my head. 
And the winds shall sing our death-dirge. 
And our shroud the waters spread: 
The moon will smile sweet. 
And the wild wave will beat. 
Oh! so softly o'er our lonely bed. 

SOXNET 

Supposed to be written by the unhappy poet Der- 
mody, in a storm, while on board a ship in his 
Majesty's service. 

Lo! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds 
Successive fly, and the loud-piping wind 

Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds. 
While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclined. 

Lists to the changeful storm: and as he plies 
10* 



114 KIRKE WHITE. 

His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him sad 

Of wife and little home, and chubby lad. 
And the half-strangled tear bedews his eyes; 
I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn. 

View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep, 
Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep, 

For not for me shall wife or children mourn. 
And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell 
Sweetly, as solemn peal of pious passing-bell. 

SONNET. 

The harp is still! Weak though the spirit were 

That whisper 'd in its rising harmonies; 

Yet Memory, with_her sister, fond Regret, 

Loves to recall the wild and wandering airs 

That cheer'd the long-fled hours, when o'er the strings 

That spirit hover'd. Weak and though it were 

To pour the torrent of impetuous song. 

It was not weak to touch the sacred chords 

Of pity, or to summon with dark spell 

Of witching rhymes, the spirits of the deep 

Form'd to do Fancy's bidding; and to fetch 

Her perfumes from the morning star, or dye 

Her volant-robes with the bright rainbow's hues. 



TO THE SPIRITS OF EVE. 

Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies. 
At evening rising slow, yet sweetly clear. 
Steal on the musing poet's pensive ear. 

As by the wood-spring stretch'd supine he lies. 
When he who now invokes you low is laid, 

His tired frame resting on the earth's cold bed. 

Hold ye your nightly vigils o'er his head. 



KIRKir WHITE. 115 

And chant a dirge to his reposing shade! 

For he was wont to love your madrigals ; 
And often by the haunted stream that laves 
The dark sequester'd woodland's inmost caves. 

Would sit and hsten to the dying falls, 
Till the full tear would quiver in his eye. 
And his big heart would heave with mournful 
ecstasy. 

MY STUDY. * 

You bid me, Ned, describe the place 
Where I, one of the rhyming race, 
Pursue my studies con amore. 
And wanton with the muse in glory. 

Well, figure to your senses straight. 
Upon the house's topmost height, 
A closet, just six feet by four, 
With white-wash'd walls and plaster floor; 
So noble large, 'tis scarcely able 
To' admit a single chair or table; 
And (lest the muse should die with cold) 
A smoky grate my fire to hold — 
So wondrous small, 'twould much it pose 
To melt the ice-drop on one's nose; 
And yet so big, it covers o'er 
Full half the spacious room and more. 

A window vainly stufF'd about. 
To keep November's breezes out, 
So crazy, that the panes proclaim. 
That soon they mean to leave the frame. 

My furniture I sure may crack — 
A broken chair without a back ; 
A table wanting just two legs, 
One end sustain'd by wooden pegs 



116 KIRKE WHITE. 

A desk — of that I am not fervent, 

The work of, Sir, your humble servant; 

(Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler;) 

A glass decanter and a tumbler, 

From which my night-parch 'd throat I lave, 

Luxurious with the limpid wave. 

A chest of drawers, in antique sections. 

And saw'd by me in all directions; 

So small, Sir, that whoever views 'em 

Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em. 

To these, if you will add a store 

Of oddities upon the floor, 

A pair of globes, electric balls. 

Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls; 

And crowds of books, on rotten shelves. 

Octavos, folios, quartos, twelve's; 

I think, dear Ned, you curious dog, 

You'll have my earthly catalogue. 

But stay,— I nearly had left out 

My bellows destitute of snout; 

And on the walls, — Good Heavens ! why there 

I've such a load of precious ware, 

Of heads, and coins, and silver medals. 

And organ works, and broken pedals; 

(For I was once a-building music, 

Though soon of that employ I grew sick ;) 

And skeletons of laws which shoot 

All out of one primordial root ; 

That you, at such a sight, would swear 

Confusion's self had settled there. 

There stands, just by a broken sphere, 

A Cicero, without an ear; 

A neck, on which, by logic good, 

I know for sure a head once stood: 



KIRKE WHITE. 117 

But who it was the able master 

Had moulded in the mimic plaster. 

Whether 'twas Pope, or Coke, or Burn, 

I never yet could justly learn: 

But knowing well, that any head 

Is made to answer for the dead, 

(And sculptors first their faces frame, 

And after pitch upon a name. 

Nor think it aught of a misnomer 

To christen Chaucer's busto Homer, 

Because they both have beards, which, you know. 

Will mark them well from Joan and Juno,) 

For some great man, I could not tell 

But Neck might answer just as well. 

So perch'd it up, all in a row 

With Chatham and with Cicero. 

Then all around in just degree, 

A range of portraits you may see. 

Of mighty men and eke of women. 

Who are no whit inferior to men. 

With these fair dames, and heroes round, 
I call my garret classic ground: 
For though confined, 'twill well contain 
The ideal flights of Madam Brain. 
No dungeon's walls, no cell confined, 
Can cramp the energies of mind! 
Thus, though my heart may seem so small, 
I've friends, and 'twill contain them all! 
And should it e'er become so cold 
That these it will no longer hold. 
No more may Heaven her blessings give, — 
I shall not then be fit to live. 



118 KIRKE WHITE. 

DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE, 

Down the sultry arc of day 
The burning wheels have urged their way 
And eve along the western skies 
Spreads her intermingling dyes. 
Down the deep, the miry lane, 
Creeking comes the empty wain. 
And driver on the shaft-horse sits, 
Whistling now and then by fits ; 
And oft with his accustom'd call. 
Urging on the sluggish Ball. 
The barn is still, the master's gone. 
And thresher puts his jacket on. 
While Dick upon the ladder tall, 
Nails the dead kite to the wall. 
Here comes shepherd Jack at last, 
He has penned the sheep-cote fast. 
For 'twas but two nights before 
A lamb was eaten on the moor: 
His empty wallet Rover carries. 
Now for Jack, when near home, tarries; 
With lolling tongue he runs to try 
If the horse-trough be not dry. 
The milk is settled in the pans, 
And supper messes in the cans; 
In the hovel carts are wheel'd. 
And both the colts are drove a-field; * 
The horses are all bedded up, 
* And the ewe is with the tup ; 
The snare for Mister Fox is set. 
The leaven laid, the thatching wet, 
And Bess has slink'd away to talk 
With Roger in the holly walk. 



119 



KIRKE WHITE. 

Now, on the settle all, but Bess, 
Are set to eat their supper mess; 
And little Tom and roguish Kate 
Are swinging on the meadow gate. 
Now they chat of various things. 
Of taxes, ministers, and kings, 
Or else tell all the village news. 
How madam did the squire refuse; 
How parson on his tithes was bent. 
And landlord oft distrain'd for rent. 
Thus do they talk, till in the sky 
The pale-eyed moon is mounted high, 
And from the alehouse drunken Ned 
"Hadreel'd — then hasten all to bed. 
The mistress sees that lazy Kate 
The happing coal on kitchen grate 
Has laid — while master goes throughout. 
Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out, 
The candles safe, the hearths all clear, 
Andjiought from thieves or fire to fear; 
Then both to bed together creep. 
And join the general troop of sleep. 



WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS 

In the Morning before Daybreak. 
Ye many twinkling stars, who yet do hola 
Your brilliant places in the sable vault 
Of night's dominions! — Planets, and central orbs 
Of other systems! — big as the burning sun 
Which lights this nether globe, — yet to our eye 
Small as the glow-worm's lamp! — To you I raise 
My lowly orisons, while, all bewilder'd. 
My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts; 



120 KIRKE WHITE. 

Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind, 

Warp'd with low prejudices, to unfold, 

And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring. 

Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him, 

The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze, 

The Great Creator! Him! who now sublime, 

Wrapt in the solitary ampUtude 

Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres 

Sits on his silent throne, and meditates. 

The' angelic hosts, in their inferior heaven, 
Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime, 
Repeating loud, ' The Lord our God is great,' 
In vari<ed harmonies. — The glorious sounds 
Roll o'er the air serene — The' -^olian spheres, 
Harping along their viewless boundaries, 
Catch the full note and cry, * The Lord is great,' 
Responding to the Seraphim. — O'er all 
From orb to orb, to the remotest verge 
Of the created world, the sound is borne, 
Till the whole universe is full of Him. 

Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now 
In fancy strikes upon my listening ear, 
And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile 
On the vain world, and all its bustling cares, 
And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss. 
Oh! what is man, when at ambition's height. 
What even are kings, when balanced in the scale 
Of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God! ' 
Thou, the dread author of these wondrous M'orks! 
Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm. 
One look of kind benevolence? — Thou canst ; 
For thou art full of universal love. 
And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart 
Thy beams as well to me as to the proud. 
The pageant insects of a glittering hour. 



\ KIRKE WHITE. 121 

Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime, 
How insignificant do all the joys, ■^'^''PPt 
The gaudes, jjnd honours of the world appear! 
How vain ambition ! Why has my wakeful lamp 
Outwatch'd the slow-paced night ?— Why on the page. 
The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'd 
The hours devoted by the world to rest. 
And needful to recruit exhausted nature ? 
Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay 
The loss of health ? or can the hope of glory 
Lend a new throb unto my languid heart. 
Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow, 
Relume the fires of this deep-sunken eye, 
Or'paint new colours on this pallid cheek ? 

Say, foolish one — can that unbodied fame. 
For which thou barterest health and happiness, 
Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave — 
Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs 
Of everlasting punishment condign ? 
Alas! how vain are mortal man's desires! 
How fruitless his pursuits! Eternal God! 
Guide Thou my footsteps in the way of truth. 
And oh! assist me so to live on earth. 
That I may die in peace, and claim a place 
In thy high dwelling. — All but this is folly. 
The vain illusions of deceitful life. 

TO A TAPER. 

*Tis midnight — On the globe dead slumber sits. 

And all is silence — in the hour of sleep — 
Save when the hollow gust, that swells by /its. 
In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep, 
I wake alone to listen and to weep, 
11 



122 KIRKE WHITE. 

To watch, my taper, thy pale beacon burn,* 
And, as still Memory does her vigils keep. 

To think of days that never can return. 
By thy pale ray I raise my languid head, 

My eye surveys the solitary gloom j 
And the sad meaning tear, unmix'd with dread. 

Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb. 
Like thee I wane ; — like thine my lifers last ray 
Will fade in loneliness, unwept, away. 

THANATOS. 

Oh! who would cherish life, 
And cling unto this heavy clog of clay. 

Love this rude world of strife. 
Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day; 

And where, 'neath outward s-miles, 
Conceal'd, the snake lies feeding on its prey; 
Where pit-falls lie in every flowery way. 

And sirens lure the wanderer to their wiles! 

Hateful it is to me, 
Its riotous railings and revengeful strife; 

I'm tired with all its screams and brutal shouts 
Dinning the ear; — away — away with life!\ 

And welcome, oh! thou silent maid, 

Who in some foggy vault art laid. 

Where never daylight's dazzling ray 

Comes to disturb thy dismal sway; 

And there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep. 

In such forgetful slumbers deep, 

That all thy senses stupified, 

Are to marble petrified. 

Sleepy death, I welcome thee! 

Sweet are thy calms to misery. 

Poppies I will ask no more, 

Nor the fatal hellebore; 



KIRKE WHITE. 123 

Death is the best, the only cure, 

His are slumbers ever sure. 

Lay me in the Gothic tomb. 

In whose solemn fretted gloom 

I may lie in mouldering state. 

With all the grandeur of the great: 

Over me, magnificent, 

Carve a stately monument; 

Then thereon my statue lay. 

With hands in attitude to pray, 

And angels serve to hold my head, 

Weeping o'er the father dead. 

Duly too at close of day, 

het the pealing organ play; 

And while the harmonious thunders roll. 

Chant a vesper to my soul: 

Thus how sweet my sleep will be. 

Shut out from thoughtful misery! 

ATHANATOS. 

Away with death — away 
With all her sluggish sleeps and chilling damps. 

Impervious to the day. 
Where nature sinks into inanity. 
How can the soul desire 
Such hateful nothingness to crave. 
And yield with joy the vital fire. 
To moulder in the grave ! 

Yet mortal life is sad. 
Eternal storms molest its sullen sky; 

And sorrows ever rife 
Drain the sacred fountain dry — ■ 
Away with mortal life! 



124 KIRKE WHITE. 

But, hail the calm reality. 

The seraph Immortahty! 
^Hail the heavenly bovvers of peace! 

Where all the storms of passion cease. 

Wild Life's dismaying struggle o'er. 

The wearied spirit weeps no more;| 

But wears the eternal smile of joy. 

Tasting bliss without alloy. 

Welcome, welcome, happy bowers. 

Where no passing tempest lowers; 

But the azure heavens display 

The everlasting smile of day; 

Where the choral seraph choir 

Strike to praise the harmonious lyre; 

And the spirit sinks to ease, 

Lull'd by distant symphonies. 

Oh! to think of meeting there 

The friends whose graves received our tear, 

The daughter loved, the wife adored. 

To our widow'd arms restored; 

And all the joys which death did sever, 

Given to us again for ever! 
' Who would cling to wretched life, 
. And hug the poison'd thorn of strife; 

Who would not long from earth to fly, 

A sluggish senseless lump to lie, '^^KjM^l 

When the glorious prospect lies ^W^ 

Full before his raptured eyes ? , 



ODE TO THOUGHT. WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 
I. 

Hence away, vindictive Thought! 
Thy pictures are of pain; 



KIRKE WHITE. 125 

The visions through thy dark eye caught, 
They with no gentle charms are fraught, 
So pr'ythee back again. 
I would not weep, 
I wish to sleep, 
Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep ? 

II. 

Why dost o'er bed and couch rechne ? 

Is this thy new delight ? 
Pale visitant, it is not thine 
To keep thy sentry through the mine, 
*The dark vault of the night: 
'Tis thine to die, 
While o'er the eye 
The dews of slumber press, and walking sorrows fly. 

III. 

Go thou, and bide with him who guides 

His bark through lonely seas; 
And, as reclining on his helm. 
Sadly he marks the starry realm. 
To him thou may 'st bring ease; 
But thou to me 
Art misery, 
So pr'jrthee, pr'ythee, plume thy wings, and from my 
pillow flee. 

IV. 

And, Memory, pray what art thou ? 

Art thou of pleasure born ? 
Does bhss untainted from thee flow ? #J 

The rose that gems the pensive brow, 

Is it without a thorn ? 
11* 



\26 KIRKE WHITE. 

With all thy smiles. 
And witching wiles. 
Yet not unfreqtient bitterness thy mournful sway 
defiles. 

V. 

The drowsy night-watch has forgot 

To call the solemn hour; 
Lull'd by the winds he slumbers deep, 
While I in vain, capricious Sleep, 
Invoke thy tardy power; 
And restless lie, 
With unclosed eye. 
And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by. 

TIME, A POEM. 

This poem was begun either during the publication 
of Clifton Grove, or shortly afterward. Henry 
never laid aside the intention of completing it, and 
some of the detached parts were among his latest 
productions. 

Genius of musings, who, the midnight houi 
Wasting in woods or haunted forests wild, 
Dost watch Orion in his arctic tower, 
Thy dark eye fix'd as in some holy trance; 
Or when the volley'd lightnings cleave the air. 
And Ruin gaunt bestrides the winged storm, 
Sitt'st in some lonely watch-tower, where thy lamp. 
Faint-blazing, strikes the fisher's eye from far. 
And 'mid the howl of elements, unmoved 
Dost ponder on the awful scene, and trace 
The vast effect to its superior source, — 
Spirit, attend my lowly benison! 
For now I strike to themes of import high 



KIRKE WHITE. 127 

The solitary lyre; and, borne by thee 
Above this narrow cell, I celebrate 
The mysteries of Time! 

Him who, angust. 
Was ere these worlds were fashion'd, — ere the sun 
Sprang from the east, or Lucifer displayed 
His glowing cresset in the arch of morn, 
Or Vesper gilded the serener eve. 
Yea, He had been for an eternity! 
Had swept unvarying from eternity 
The harp of desolation! — ere his tones, 
At God's command, assumed a milder strain, 
An'3 startled on his watch, in the vast deep. 
Chaos's sluggish sentry, and evoked 
From the dark void the smiling universe, 
Chain'd to the grovelling frailties of the flesh. 
Mere mortal man, unpurged from earthly dross. 
Cannot survey, with fix'd and steady eye. 
The dim uncertain gulf, which now the Muse, 
Adventrous, would explore: — but dizzy grown. 
He topples down the abyss. — If he would scan 
The fearful chasm, and catch a transient glimpse 
Of its unfathomable depths, that so 
His mind may turn with double joy to God, 
His only certainty and resting place; 
He must put off awhile this mortal vest, 
And learn to follow, without giddiness. 
To heights where all is vision, and surprise, 
And vague conjecture. — He must waste by night 
The studious taper, far from all resort 
Of crowds and folly, in some still retreat; 
High on the beetling promontory's crest. 
Or in the caves of the vast wilderness. 
Where, compasa'd round with Nature's wildest shapes. 



128 KIRKE WHITE. 

He may be driven to centre all his thoughts 

In the Great Architect, who lives confess'd 

In rocks, and seas, and solitary wastes: 

So has divine Philosophy, with voice 

Mild as the murmurs of the moonlight wave, 

Tutor'd the heart of him, who now awakes. 

Touching the chords of solemn minstrelsy, 

His faint, neglected song — intent to snatch 

Some vagrant blossom from the dangerous steep 

Of poesy, a bloom of such a hue. 

So sober, as may not unseemly suit 

With Truth's severer brow; and one withal 

So hardy as shall brave the passing wind 

Of many winters, — rearing its meek head 

In loveliness, when he who gather'd it 

Is number'd with the generations gone. 

Yet not to me hath God's good providence 

Given studious leisure,* or unbroken thought, 

Such as he owns, — a meditative jman. 

Who from the blush of morn to quiet eve 

Ponders, or turns the page of wisdom o'er. 

Far from the busy crowd's tumidtuous din: 

From noise and wrangling far, and undisturb'd 

With Mirth's unholy shouts. ( For me the day 

Hath duties which require the vigorous hand 

Of steadfast application, but which leave 

No deep improving trace upon the mind. 

But be the day another's; — let it pass! 

The night's my own-^They cannot steal my night! 

When evening lights her folding star on high, 

I live and breathe, and in the sacred hours 

Of quiet and repose, my spirit flies, 

* The author was then in an Attorney's office. 



KIRKE WHITE. 129 

Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space. 

And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for Heaven. 

Hence do I love thee sober-suited maid; '; 

Hence night's my friend, my mistress and my theme, 

And she shall aid me now to magnify 

The night of ages, — now when the pale ray 

Of starlight penetrates the studious gloom, 

And, at my window seated, while mankind 

Are lock'd in sleep, I feel the freshening breeze 

Of stillness blow, while, in her saddest stole. 

Thought^ like a wakeful vestal at her shrine. 

Assumes her wonted sway. 

Behold the world 
R^ts, and her tired inhabitants have paused 
From trouble and turmoil. The widow now 
Has ceased to weep, and her twin orphans lie 
Lock'd in each arm, partaker's of her rest 
The man of sorrow has forgot his woes; 
The outcast that his head is shelterless. 
His griefs unshared. — The mother tends no more 
Her daughter's dying slumbers, but surprised 
With heaviness, and sunk upon her couch, 
Dreams ofher bridals. Even the hectic, lull'd 
On death's lean arm to rest, in visions wrapped. 
Crowning with Hope's bland wreath his shuddering 

nurse, 
Poor victim! smiles. — Silence and deep repose 
Reign o'er the nations; and the warning voice 
Of Nature utters audibly within 
The general moral: tells us that repose. 
Deathlike as this, but of far longer span, 
^ Is coming on us — that the weary crowds. 
Who now enjoy a temporary calm, 
Shall soon taste lasting quiet, wrapped around 



130 KIRKE WHITE. 

With grave-clothes: and their acting restless heads 

Mouldering in holes and corners unobserved. 

Till the last trump shall break their sullen sleep. 

Who needs a teacher to admonish him 

That flesh is grass, that earthly things are mist ? 

What are our joys but dreams ? and what our hopes 

But goodly shadows in the summer cloud ? 

There's not a wind that blows but bears with it 

Some rainbow promise: — Not a moment flies 

But puts its sickle in the fields of life. 

And mows its thousands, with their joys and cares. 

'Tis but as yesterday since on yon stars. 

Which now I view, the Chaldee Shepherd* gazed 

In his mid- watch observant, and disposed 

The twinkling hosts as fancy gave them shape. 

Yet in the interim what mighty shocks 

Have buffeted mankind! — whole nations razed — 

Cities made desolate, — the polish'd sunk 

To barbarism, and once barbaric states 

Swaying the wand of science and of arts; 

Illustrious deeds and memorable names 

Blotted from record, and upon the tongue 

Of gray Tradition, voluble no more. 

Where are the heroes of the ages past ? 
Where the brave chieftains, where the mighty ones 
Who flourished in the infancy of days ? 
All to the grave gone down. On their fallen fame 
Exulting, mocking at the pride of man. 
Sits grim Forgetfulness. — The warrior's arm 
Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame; 
Hush'd is his stormy voice, and quench'd the blaze 

* Alluding to the first astronomical observations made by 
the Chaldean shepherds. 



• 



KIRKE WHITE. 131 

Of his red eye-ball.— Yesterday his name 
Was mighty on the earth — To-day — ^'tis what ? 
The meteor of the night of distant years. 
That flash'd unnoticed, save by the wrinkled eld. 
Musing at midnight upon prophecies, 
Who at the lonely lattice saw the gleam 
Point to the mist-poised shroud, then quietly 
Closed her pale lips, and lock'd the secret up 
Safe in the charnel's treasures. 

how weak 
Is mortal man! how trifling — how confined 
His scope of vision! PufF'd with confidence. 
His phrase grows big with immortality, 
AndTie, poor insect of a summer's day! 
Dreams of eternal honours to his name ; 
Of endless glory and perennial bays. 
He idly reasons of eternity. 
As of the train of ages, — when, alas! 
Ten thousand thousand of his centuries 
Are, in comparison a little point 
Too trivial for accompt. — O, it is strange, 
'Tis passing strange, to mark his fallacies: 
Behold him proudly view some pompous pile, 
Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies, 
And smile, and say, my name shall live with this 
Till Time shall be no more ; while at his feet. 
Yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dust 
Of the fallen fabric of the other day 
Preaches the solemn lesson. — He should know 
That time must conquer ; that the loudest blast 
That ever fill'd Renown's obstreperous trump 
fades in the lapse of ages, and expires. 
Who lies inhumed in the terrific gloom 
Of the gigantic pyramid ? or who 



132 KIRKE WHITE. 

Rear'd its huge walls ? Oblivion laughs, and says, 
The prey is mine. — They sleep, and never more 
Their name shall strike upon the ear of man — 
Their memory bursts its fetters. 

Where is Rome? 
She lives but in the tale of other times; 
Her proud pavilions are the hermit's home. 
And her long colonnades, her public walks. 
Now faintly echo to the pilgrim's feet. 
Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace. 
Through the rank moss reVeal'd, her honour'd dust. 
But not to Rome alone has fate confined 
The doom of ruin; cities numberless, 
Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy, 
And rich Phoenicia-they are blotted out. 
Half-rased from memory, and their very name 
And being in dispute. — Has Athens fallen 
Is polish'd Greece become the savage seat 
Of ignorance and sloth ? and shall ijoe dare 



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And empire seeks another hemisphere. 
Where now is Britain ? — Where her laurell'd names. 
Her palaces and halls ? Dash'd in the dust. 
Some second Vandal hath reduced her pride. 
And with one big recoil hath thrown her back 

To primitive barbarity. Again, 

Through her depopulated vales, the scream 
Of bloody Superstition hollow rings, 
And the scared native to the tempest howls 
The yell of deprecation. O'er her marts. 



KIRKE WHITE. 133 

Her crowded ports, broods silence; and the cry 

Of the low curlew, and the pensive dash 

Of distant billows, breaks alone the void. 

Even as the savage sits upon the stone 

That marks where stood her capitols, and hears 

The bittern booming in the weeds, he shrinks 

From the dismaying solitude. — Her bards 

Sing in a language that hath perished: 

And their wild harps suspended o'er their graves. 

Sigh to the desert winds a dying strain. 

Meanwhile the Arts, in second infancy, 

Rise in some distant clime, and then, perchance, 

Some bold adventurer, fill'd with golden dreams, 

Steering his bark through trackless solitudes — 

Where, to his wandering thoughts, no daring prow 

Hath ever plough'd before — espies the cliifs 

Of fallen Albion. — To the land unknown 

He journies joyful; and perhaps descries 

Some vestige of her ancient stateliness: 

Then he, with vain conjecture, fills his mind 

Of the unheard-of race, which had arrived 

At science in that solitary nook. 

Far from the civil world; and sagely sighs. 

And moralizes on the state of man. 

Still on its march, unnoticed and unfelt, 
Mqves on our being. We do live and breathe, 
And we are gone. The spoiler heeds us not. 
We have our spring-time and our rottenness; 
And as we fall, another race succeeds. 
To perish likewise. — Meanwhile Nature smiles — 
The seasons run their round — the Sun fulfils 
His annual course — and heaven and earth remain 
Still changing, yet unchanged — still doom'd to feel 
Endless mutation in perpetual rest. 
12 



134 B.IRKE WHITE. 

Where are conceal'd the days which have elapsed ? 

Hid in the mighty cavern of the past. 

They rise upon us only to appal, 

By indistinct and half-glimpsed images, 

Misty, gigantic, huge, obscure, remote. 

Oh, it is fearful, on the midnight couch. 
When the rude rushing winds forget to rave. 
And the pale moon, that through the casement high 
Surveys the sleepless muser, stamps the hour 
Of utter silence, it is fearfal then 
To steer the mind, in deadly solitude, 
Up the vague stream of probability; 
To wind the mighty secrets of the past. 
And turn the key of Time! — Oh! who can strive 
To comprehend the vast, the awful truth 
Of the eternity that hath gone by. 
And not recoil from the dismaying sense 
Of human impotence ? The life of man 
Is summed in birthdays and in sepulchres: 
But the Eternal God had no beginning; 
He hath no end. Time had been with him 
For everlasting, ere the dsedal world 
Rose from the gulf in loveliness. — Like him 
It knew no source, like him 'twas uncreate. 
What is it then? The past Eternity! 
We comprehend a. future without end; 
We feel it possible that even yon sun 
May roil for ever: but we shrink amazed — 
We stand aghast, when we reflect that Time 
Knew no commencement. That, heap age on age, 
And million upon million, without end. 
And we shall never span the void of days 
That were, and are not but in retrospect. 
The past is an unfathomable depths 



KIRKE WHITE. 135 

Beyond the span of thought; 'tis an elapse 
Which hath no mensuration, but hath been 
For ever and for ever. 

Change of days 
To us is sensible; and each revolve 
Of the recording sun conducts us on 
Farther in life, and nearer to our goal. 
Not so with Time, — ^mysterious chronicler. 
He knoweth not mutation; — centuries 
Are to his being as a day, and days 
As centuries. — ^Time past, and Time to come. 
Are always equal; when the world began 
God had existed from eternity. 

7^ 7fi 7^ ^ 7p "fp 9^ 

Now look on man 
Myriads of ages hence. — Hath time elapsed ? 
Is he not standing in the self-same place 
Where once we stood ? — The same eternity 
Hath gone before him, and is yet to come; 
His past is not of longer span than ours, 
Though myriads of ages intervened ; 
For who can add to what has neither sum, 
Nor bound, nor source, nor estimate, nor end; 
Oh, who can compass the Almighty mind ? 
Who can unlock the secrets of the High ? 
In speculations of an altitude 
Sublime as this, our reason stands confess'd 
Foolish, and insignificant and mean. 
Who can apply the futile argument 
Of finite beings to infinity? 
He might as well compress the universe 
Into the hollow compass of a gomrd, 
Scoop'd out by human art; or bid the whale 
Drink up the sea it swims in. — Can the less 



136 KIRKE WHITE. 

Contain the greater ? or the dark obscure 
Infold the glories of meridian day ? 
What does Philosophy impart to man 
But undiscover'd wonders? — Let her soar 
Even to her proudest heights — to where she caught 
The soul of Newton and of Socrates, 
She but extends the scope of wild amaze 
And admiration. All her lessons end 
In wider views of God's unfathom'd depths. 
Lo! the unletter'd hind, who never knew 
To raise his mind excursive to the heights 
Of abstract contemplation, as he sits 
On the green hillock by the hedge-row side, 
What time the insect swarms are murmuring. 
And marks, in silent thought, the broken clouds - 
That fringe with loveliest hues the evening sky. 
Feels in his soul the hand of Nature rouse 
The thrill of gratitude, to him who form'd 
The goodly prospect; he beholds the God 
Throned in the west, and his reposing ear 
Hears sounds angelic in the fitful breeze 
That floats through neighbouring copse or fairy brake, 
Or lingers playful on the haunted stream. 
Go with the cotter to his winter fire, 
Where o'er the moors the loud blast whistles shrill, 
And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon; 
Mark with what awe he lists the wild uproar, 
Silent, and big with thought; and hear him bless 
The God that rides on the tempestuous clouds 
For his snug hearth, and all his little joys; 
Hear him compare his happier lot with his 
Who bends his way across the wintry wolds, 
A poor night-traveller, while the dismal snow 
Beats in his face, and, dubious of his path, 



KIRKE WHITE. 137 

He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast. 
He hears some village mastiff's distant howl. 
And sees, far-streaming, some lone cottage light ; 
Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes. 
And clasps his shivering hands; or, overpower 'd. 
Sinks on the frozen ground, weigh'd down with sleep. 
From which the hapless wretch shall never wake. 
Thus the poor rustic warms his heart with praise 
And glowing gratitude,— he turns to bless. 
With honest warmth, his Maker and his God! 
And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind. 
Nursed in the lap of Ignorance, and bred 
In want and labour, glows with nobler zeal 
To laud his Maker's attributes, while he 
Whom starry Science in her cradle rock'd. 
And Castaly enchasten'd with its dews. 
Closes his eyes upon the holy word. 
And, blind to all but arrogance and pride. 
Dares to declare his infidelity. 
And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts ? 
What is philosophy, if it impart 
Irreverence for the Deity, or teach 
A mortal man to set his judgement up 
Against his maker's will ? — The Polygar, 
Who kneels to sun or moon, compared with hira 
Who thus perverts the talents he enjoys. 
Is the most bless'd of men! — Oh! I would walk 
A weary journey, to the farthest verge 
Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand. 
Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art, 
Preserves a lowly mind; and to his God, 
Feeling the sense of his own littleness. 
Is a child in meek simplicity! 
What is the pomp of learning ? the parade 
12* 



138 KIRKE WHITE. 

Of letters and of tongues ? Even as the mists 
Of the gay morn before the rising sun, 
To pass away and perish. 

Earthly thmgs 
Are but the transient pageants of an hour; 
And earthly pride is like the passing flower, 
That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die. 
'Tis as the tower erected on a cloud. 
Baseless and silly as the schoolboy's dream. 
Ages and epochs that destroy our pride. 
And then record its downfall, what are they 
But the poor creatures of man's teeming brain ? 
Hath Heaven its ages ? or doth heaven preserve 
Its stated eras ? Doth the Omnipotent 
Hear of to-morrows or of yesterdays ? 
There is to God nor future nor a past ; ^ 

Throned in his might, all times to him are present; 
He hath no lapse, no past, no time tb come; 
He sees before him one eternal now. 
Time moveth not! — our being 'tis that moves: 
And we, swift gliding down life's rapid stream. 
Dream of swift ages and revolving years, 
Ordain'd to chronicle our passing days: 
So the young sailor in the gallant bark, 
Scudding before the wind, beholds the coast 
Receding from his eyes, and thinks the while. 
Struck with amaze, that he is motionless, 
And that the land is sailing. 

Such, alas! 
Are the illusions of this Proteus life ; 
All, all is false: through every phasis still 
'Tis shadowy and deceitful. It assumes 
The semblances of things and specious shapes; 
But the lost traveller might as soon rely 



KIRKE WHITK. 139 

On the evasive spirit of the marsh, 
Whose lantern beams, and vanishes, and flits. 
O'er bog, and rock, and pit, and hollow way. 
As we on its appearances. 

On earth 
Thete is no certainty nor stable hope. 
As well the weary raariner, whose bark 
Is toss'd beyond Cimmerian Bosphorus, 
Where Storm and Darkness hold their drear domain. 
And sunbeams never penetrate, might trust 
To expectation of serener skies, 
And linger in the very jaws of death, 
Beqause some peevish cloud were opening, 
Or the loud storm had bated in its rage; 
As ^v€ look forward in this vale of tears 
To permanent delight — from some slight glimpse 
Of shadowy unsubstantial happiness. 

The good man's hope is laid far, far beyond 
The sway of tempests, or the furious sweep 
Of mortal desolation. — He beholds. 
Unapprehensive, the gigantic stride 
Of rampant ruin, or the' unstable waves 
Of dark Vicissitude. — Even in death. 
In that dread hour, when with a giant pang, 
Tearing the tender fibres of the heart, 
The immortal spirit struggles to be free, 
Then, even then, that hope forsakes him not. 
For it exists beyond the narrow verge 
Of the cold sepulchre. The petty joys 
Of" fleeting life indignantly it spurned. 
And rested on the bosom of its God. 
This is man's only reasonable hope; 
And 'tis a hope which, cherish 'd in the breast. 
Shall not be disappointed. — Even he, 



140 KIRKE WHITE. 

The Holy One — Almighty — who elanced 

The rolling world along its airy way, 

Even He will deign to smile upon the good, 

And welcome him to these celestial seats. 

Where joy and gladness hold their changeless reign. 

Thou, proud man, look upon yon starry vault, 

Survey the countless gems which richly stud 

The Night's imperial chariot; — Telescopes 

Will show thee myriads more innumerous 

Than the sea sand; — each of those little lamps 

Is the great source of light, the central sun 

Round which some other mighty sisterhood 

Of planets travel, every planet stock'd 

With living beings impotent as thee. 

Now, proud man! now, v/here is thy greatness fled? 

What art thou in thy scale of universe ? 

Less, less than nothing! — Yet of thee the God 

Who built this wondrous frame of worlds is careful, 

As well as of the mendicant who begs 

The leavings of thy table. And shalt thou 

Lift up thy thankless spirit, and contemn 

His heavenly providence! Deluded fool. 

Even now the thunderbolt is winged with death, 

Even now thou totterest on the brink of hell. 

How insignificant is mortal man. 
Bound to the hasty pinions of an hour! 
How poor, how trivial in thy vast conceit 
Of infinite duration, boundless space! 
God of the universe! Almighty one! 
Thou who dost walk upon the winged winds. 
Or with the storm, thy rugged charioteer, 
Swift and impetuous as the northern blast, 
Ridest from pole to pole ; Thou who dost hold 
The forked lightnings in thine awful grasp, 



KIRKE WHITE. 141 

And reinest in the earthquake, when thy ^yrath 

Goes down towards erring man, I would address 

To Thee my parting poean; for of Thee, 

Great beyond comprehension, who thyself 

Art Time and Space, sublime Infinitude, 

Of Thee has been my song — With awe I kneel 

Trembhng before the footstool of thy state. 

My God! my Father! — I will sing to Thee 

A hymn of laud, a solemn cantide. 

Ere on the cypress wreath, which overshades 

The throne of Death, I hang my mournful lyre, 

And give its wild strings to the desert gale. 

Rise, son of Salem! rise, and join the strain, 

Swe'^p to accordant tones thy tuneful harp, 

And leaving vain laments, arouse my soul 

To exultation. Sing hosanna, sing, . 

And hallelujah, for the Lord is great 

And full of mercy! He has thought of man; 

Yea, compass 'd round with countless worlds, haa 

Of we. poor worms, that batten in the dews [thought 

Of morn, and perish ere the noonday sun. 

Sing to the Lord, for he is merciful: 

He gave the Nubian lion but to live, 

To rage its hour, and perish; but on man 

He lavish'd immortality, and heaven. 

The eagle fall? from his aerial tower, 

And mingles with irrevocable dust : 

But man from death springs joyful, 

Springs up to life and to eternity. 

Oh, that, insensate of the favouring boon, 

The great exclusive privilege bestow'd 

On us unworthy trifles, men should dare 

To treat with slight regard the profFer'd heaven. 

And urge the lenient, but All- Just, to swear 



142 KIRKE WHITE, 

In wrath, ' They shall not enter in my rest!' 

Might I address the supplicative strain 

To thy high footstool, I would pray that thou 

Wouldst pity the deluded wanderers. 

And fold them, ere they perish, in thy flock. 

Yea, I would bid thee pity them, through Him, 

Thy well-beloved, who, upon the cross. 

Bled a dead sacrifice for human sin. 

And paid, with bitter agony the debt 

Of primitive transgression. 

Oh I I shrink, 
My very soul doth shrink, when I reflect 
That the time hastens, when in vengeance clothed. 
Thou shalt come down to stamp the seal of fate 
On erring mortal man. Thy chaiiot wheels 
Then shall rebound to earth's remotest caves. 
And stormy Ocean from his bed shall start 
At the appalling summons. Oh! how dread. 
On the dark eye of miserable man, 
Chasing his sins in secrecy and gloom, 
Will burst the efiulgence of the opening heaven; 
When to the brazen trumpets deafening roar,. 
Thou and thy dazzling cohorts shall descend. 
Proclaiming the fulfilment of the word! 
The dead shall start astonish'd from their sleep! 
Their sepulchres shall groan and yield their prey! 
The bellowing floods shall disembogue their charge 
Of human victims. — From the farthest nook 
Of the wide world shall troop their risen souls, 
From him whose bones are bleaching in the waste 
Of polar solitudes, or him whose corpse, 
Whelm'd in the loud Atlantic's vexed tides. 
Is wash'd on some Carribean prominence, 
To the lone tenant of some secret cell 



KIRKE WHITE. 143 

In the Pacific's vast * ♦ * realm, 

Where never plummet's sound was heard to part 

The wilderness of water; they shall come 

To greet the solemn advent of the Judge. 

Thou first shall summon the elected saints 

To their apportion'd heaven! and thy Son, 

At thy right hand, shall smile with conscious joy 

On all his past distresses, when for them 

He bore humanity's severest pangs. 

Then shalt thou seize the' avenging scimitar. 

And, with a roar as loud and horrible 

As the stern earthquake's monitory voice, 

The wicked shall be driven to their abode, 

DowM the immitigable gulf, to wail 

And gnash their teeth in endless agony. 

Rear thou aloft thy standard — Spirit, rear 

Thy flag on high! — Invincible, and throned 

In unparticipated might. Behold 

Earth's proudest boasts, beneath thy silent sway. 

Sweep headlong to destruction, thou the while. 

Unmoved and heedless, thou dost hear the rush 

Of mighty generations, as they pass 

To the broad gulf of ruin, and dost stamp 

Thy signet on them, and they rise no more. 

Who shall contend with time — ^unvanquish'd Time, 

The conqueror of conquerors, and lord 

Of desolation ? — Lo ! the shadows fly. 

The hours and days, and years and centuries. 

They fly, they fly, and nations rise and fall. 

The young are old, the old are in their graves. 

Heard'st thou that shout ? It rent the vaulted skies; 

It was the voice of people, — mighty crowds, — 

Again! 'tis hush'd— Time speaks, and all is hush'dj 



144 KIRKE WHITE. 

In the vast multitude now reigns alone 

Unruffled solitude. They all are still; 

All — yea, the whole — the incalculable maps, 

Still as the ground that clasps their cold remains. 

Rear thou aloft thy standard — Spirit, rear 

Thy flag on high! and glory in thy strength. 

But do thou know the season yet shall come, 

When from its base thine adamantine throne 

Shall tumble ; when thine arm shall cease to strike. 

Thy voice foi-get its petrifying power; 

When saints shall "shout, and Time shall be /no more. 

Yea, he doth come — the mighty champion comes, 

Whose potent spear shall give thee thy death-wound, 

Shall crush the conqueror of conquerors, 

And desolate stern Desolation's lord. 

Lo! where he cometh! the Messiah comes! 

The King! the Comforter! the Christ!— He comes 

To burst the bonds of death, and overturn 

The power of Time. — Hark! the trumpet's blast 

Rings o'er the heavens! They rise, the myriads rise — 

Even from their graves they spring, and burst the chains 

Of torpor — He has ransom'd them, * * * 

Forgotten generations live again, 

Assume the bodily shapes they own'd of old; 

Beyond the flood: — The righteous of their times 

Embrace and weep, they weep the tears of joy. 

The sainted mother wakes, and in her lap 

Clasps her dear babe, the partner of her grave. 

And heritor with her of heaven, — a flower 

Wash'd by the blood of Jesus from the stain 

Of native guilt, even in its early bud. 

And, hark! those strains, how solemnly serene 

They fall, as from the skies — at distance Tall — 

Again more loud — The hallelujah's swell; 



KIRKE WHITE. 145 

The newly-risen catch the joyful sound; 
They glow, they burn ; and now with one accord 
Bursts forth sublime from every mouth the song 
Of praise to God on high, and to the Lamb 
Who bled for mortals. 

* * * * * * * 

Yet there is peace for man. — Yea, there is peace 

Even in this noisy, this unsettled scene; 

When from the crowd, and from the city far. 

Haply he may be set (in his late walk 

O'ertaken with deep thought) beneath the boughs 

Of honeysuckle, when the sun is gone, 

And with fix'd eye, and wistful, he surveys 

Th? solemn shadows of the heavens sail. 

And thinks the season yet shall come, when Time 

Will waft him to repose, to deep repose. 

Far from the unquietness of life — from noise 

And tumult far — ^beyond the flymg clouds. 

Beyond the stars, and all this passing scene. 

Where change shall cease, and Time shall be no more 



TO THE RIVER TRENT. 

Written on recovery from sickness. 

Once more, Trent ! along thy pebbly marge 

A pensive invalid, reduced and pale. 
From the close sick-room newly let at large, 
Woos to his wan- worn cheek the pleasant gale. 
! to his ear how musical the tale 

Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat! 
And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail. 
How wildly novel on his senses float ! 
13 



146 KIRKE WHITE. 

It was on this that many a sleepless night, 

As, lone, he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam, 
And at his casement heard, with wild affright, 
The owls dull wing and melancholy scream, 
On this he thought, this, this his sole desire. 
Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir 



VERSES. 

When pride and envy, and the scorn 

Of wealth, my heart with gall imbued, 
I thought how pleasant were the morn 

Of silence, in the solitude; 
To hear the forest bee on wing, 
Or by the stream, or woodland spring. 
To lie and muse alone — alone, 
While the tinkling waters moan. 
Or such wild sounds arise, as say, 
Man and noise are far away. 

Now, surely, thought I, there's enow 

To fill life's dusty way; 
And who will miss a poet's feet. 

Or wonder where he stray: 
So to the woods and waste I'll go. 

And I will build an osier bower; 
And sweetly there to me shall flow 

The meditative hour. 

And when the Autumn's withering han6 
Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land, 
I'll to the forest caverns hie: 
And in the dark and stormy nights 
I'll listen to the shrieking sprites, 



KIRKE WHITE. 147 

Who, in the wintry wolds and floods, 
Keep jubilee, and shred the woods; 
Or, as 'tis drifted soft and slow. 
Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow. 



THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls 
In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls, 
The village matron kept her little school. 
Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule; 
Staid was, the dame, and modest was her mien; 
Hejigarb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean; 
Her neatly border'd cap, as lily fair. 
Beneath her chin was pinned with decent care; 
And pendent ruffles, of the whitest lawn. 
Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn. 
Faint with 6ld age, and dim were grown her eyes, 
A pair of spectacles their want supplies; 
These does she guard secure in leathern case. 
From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place. 
Here first I enter'd, though with toil and pain. 
The low vestibule of learning's fane; 
Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way. 
Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display; 
Much did I grieve, on that ill-fated morn. 
While I was first to school reluctant borne: 
Severe I thought the dame, though oft she try'd 
To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd; 
And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept. 
To my lone corner broken-hearted crept. 
And thought of tender home, where anger never kept. 
But soon inured to alphabetic toils. 
Alert I met the dame with Jocund smiles ; 



148 KIRKE WHITE. 

First at the form, my task forever true, 
A little favourite rapidly I grew: 
And oft she stroked my head with fond delight, 
Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight; 
And as she gave my diligence its praise, 
Talk'd of the honours of my future days. 
Oh! had the venerable matron thought 
Of all the ills by talent often brought; 
Could she have seen me when revolving years 
Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears. 
Then had she wept, and wish'd ray wayward fate 
Had been a lowlier, an unletter'd state; 
Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife. 
Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd through life. 

THE WANDERING BOY. A SONG. 
I. 

When the winter wind whistles along the wild moor. 
And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door; 
When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye. 
Oh, how hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy! 

II. 

The winter is cold and I have no vest. 
And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast; 
No father, no mother, no kindred have I, 
For I am a parentless Wandering Boy. 

III. 
Yet I once had a home, and I once had a sire, 
A mother who granted each infant desire ; 
Our cottage it stood in a wood-embower'd vale, 
Where the ring-dove would warble its sorrowful tale. 



KIRKE WHITE. 149 

But my father and mother were summon 'd away. 
And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey; 
I fled from their rigour with many a sigh. 
And now I'm a poor little Wandering Boy. 

V. 

The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale. 
And no one will list to my innocent tale; 
I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie, 
And death shall befriend the poor Wandering Boy. 

WRITTEN IN WIL.F0RD CHURCHYARD, 

* On Recovery from Sickness. 

Here would I wish to sleep. — This is the spot 
Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in; 
Tired out and wearied with the riotous world. 
Beneath this Yew I would be sepulchred. 
It is a lovely spot! The sultry sun. 
From his meridian height, endeavours vainly 
To pierce the shadowy foilage, while the zephyr 
Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent, 
And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook 
Most pleasant. Such a one, perchance, did Gray 
Frequent, as with a vagrant muse he wanton'd. 

Come, I will sit me down and meditate. 
For I am wearied with my summer's walk; 
And here I may repose in silent ease; 
And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er, 
My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may find 
The haven of its rest — beneath this sod 
Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death. 

I would not have my corpse cemented down 
With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earth-worm 
13* 



160 K.IRKE WHITE. 

Of its predestined dues; no, I would lie 

Beneath a little hillock, grass-o'ergrown, 

Swathed down with osiers, just as sleep the cottiers 

Yet may not undistinguished be my grave; 

But there at eve may some congenial soul 

Duly resort, and shed a pious tear, 

The good man's benison — no more I ask. 

And oh! (if heavenly beings may look down 

From where, with cherubim, inspired they sit, 

Upon this little dim-discover'd spot. 

The earth,) then will I cast a glance below, 

On him who thus my ashes shall embalm; 

And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer 

Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pine 

In this low-thoughted world of darkling woe. 

But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies. 

Yet 'twas a silly thought, as if the body. 
Mouldering beneatl^ the surface of the earth, 
Could taste the sweets of summer scenery. 
And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze! 
Yet nature speaks within the human bosom, 
And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond 
Its narrow verge of being, and provide 
A decent residence for its clayey shell, 
Endear'd to it by time. And who would lay 
His body in the city burial-place. 
To be thrown up again by some rude Sexton, 
And yield its narrow house another tenant. 
Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust. 
Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp, 
Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness ? 
No, I will lay me in the village ground; 
There are the dead respected. The poor hind, 
UnletterM as he is, would scorn to' invade 



KIRKE WHITE. 151 

The silent resting-place of death. I've seen 

The labourer, returning from his toil. 

Here stay his steps, and call his children round. 

And slowly spell the rudely-sculptured rhymes, 

And, in his riistic manner, moralize. 

I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken, 

With head uncover'd, his respectful manner. 

And all the honours which he paid the grave, 

And thought on cities, where even cementeries, 

Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality. 

Are not protected from the drunken insolence 

Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc. 

Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close! 

YSt, if this be denied, where'er my bones 

May lie — or in the city's crowded bounds. 

Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters. 

Or left a prey on some deserted shore 

To the rapacious cormorant ,^ — yet still, 

(For why should sober reason cast away 

A thought which soothes the soul?) yet still my spirit 

Shall wing its way to these my native regions. 

And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think 

Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew 

In solemn rumination; and will smile 

With joy that I have got my long'd release. 



A WINTER SKETCH. 

Loud rage the winds without. — The wintry cloud 
O'er the cold north-star casts her flitting shroud; 
And Silence, pausing in some snow-clad dale. 
Starts as she hears, by fits, the shrieking gale; 
Where now, shut out from every still retreat. 
Her pine-clad summit, and her woodland seat, 



152 KIRKE WHITE. 

Shall Meditation, in her saddest mood, 

Retire o'er all her pensive stores to brood ? 

Shivering and blue the peasant eyes askance 

The drifted fleeces that around him dance. 

And hurries on his half-averted form. 

Stemming the fury of the sidelong storm. 

Him soon shall greet his snow-^topt [cot of thatch,] 

Soon shall his numb'd hand tremble on the latch, 

Soon from his chimney's nook the cheerful flame 

Diffuse a genial warmth throughout his frame ; 

Round the light fire, while roars the north wind loud, 

What merry groups of vacant faces crowd; 

These hail his coming — these hi^ meal prepare. 

And boast in all that cot no lurking care. 

What, though the social circle be denied, 
Even sadness brightens at her own fire-side, 
Loves, with fix'd eye, to watch the fluttering blaze. 
While musing Memory dwells on former days; . 
Or Hope, blest spirit! smiles — and still forgiven. 
Forgets the passport, while she points to heaven. 
Then heap the fire — shut out the biting air. 
And from its station wheel the easy chair: 
Thus fenced and warm, in silent fit, 'tis sweet 
To hear without the bitter tempest beat: 
All, all alone — to sit, and muse, and sigh, 
The pensive tenant of obscurity — 



WINTER SONG. 

Rouse the blazing midnight fire 
Heap the crackling faggots higher; 
Stern December reigns without. 
With old Winter's blustering rout. 



KIRKE WHITE. 153 

Let the jocund timbrels sound. 
Push the jolly goblet round; 
Care, avaimt, with all thy crew. 
Goblins dire and devils blue. 

Hark! without the tempest howls; 
And the afSrighted watch-dog growls; 
Witches on their broomsticks sail, 
Death upon the whistling gale. 

Heap the crackling faggots higher, 
Draw your easy chairs still nigher; 
And, to guard from wizards hoar. 
Nail the horse-shoe on the door. 

Now repeat the freezing story 
Of the murder'd traveller gory. 
Found beneath the yew-tree sear. 
Cut his throat from ear to ear. 

Tell, too, how his ghost, all bloody, 
Frighten'd once a neighbouring goody; 
And how, still, at twelve he stalks. 
Groaning o'er the wild wood walks. 

Then, when fear usurps her sway, 
Let us creep to bed away ; 
Each for ghosts, but little bolder. 
Fearfully peeping o'er his shoulder. 

THE WINTER TRAVELLER. 

God help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far; 
The wind is bitter keen, — the snow o'erlays 
The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways. 



154 . KIRKE WHITE. 

And darkness will involve thee. — No kind star 

To-night will guide thee, Traveller, — and the war 
Of winds and elements on thy head will break. 
And in thy agonising ear the shriek 

Of spirits, howling on their stornay car, 

Will often ring appalling — I portend 

A dismal night — and on my wakeful bed, 
Thoughts, Traveller, of thee will fill my head. 

And him who rides where winds and waves contend, 
And strives, rude cradled on the seas, tc guide 
His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide. 

TO WINTER. 

Drear winter! who dost knock 
So loud and angry on my cottage roof 
In the loud night-storm wrapt, M'hile drifting snows 
The cheerless waste invest, and cold, and wide, 
Seen by the flitting star, the landscape gleams; 
"With no unholy awe I hear thy voice. 
As by my dying embers, safely housed, 
I, in deep silence, muse. Though I am lone. 
And my low chimney owns no cheering voice 
Of friendly converse, yet not comfortless 
Is my long evening, nor devoid of thoughts 
To cheat the silent hours upon their way. 
There are, who in this dark and fearful night. 
Houseless, and cold of heart, are forced to bide 
These beating snows, and keen relentless winds — 
Wayfaring men, or wanderers whom no home 
Awaits, nor rests from travel, save the inn 
Where all the journeyers of mortal life 
Lie down at last to sleep. Yet some there be 
Who merit not to suffer. — Infancy 
And sinew-shrinking age are not exempt 



KIRKE WHITE. 155 

From penury's severest, deadliest gripe. 

Oh, it doth chill the eddying heart 's-blood to see 

The guileless cheek of infancy turn blue 

With the keen cold. — Lo, where the baby hangs 

On his wan parent's hand, his shivering skin 

Half bare, and opening to the biting gale. 

Poor shiverer, to his mother he upturns 

A meaning look in silence! then he casts 

Askance, upon the howling waste before, 

A mournful glance upon the forward way — 

But all lies dreary, and as cold as hope 

In his forsaken breast. 

THE WISH. 

Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, 

Where, far from cities, I may spend my days. 
And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled. 

May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. 
While on the rock I mark the browsing goat. 

List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise. 
Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note, 

I shall not want the world's delusive joys; 
But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre. 

Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more; 
And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire, 

I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore. 
And lay me down to rest where the wild wave 
Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave. 

THE FRUITLESS WISH. 

I have a wish, and near my heart 

That wish lies buried; 
To keep it there's a foolis'^ ♦""■♦ 



156 KIRKE WHITE 

For, oh! it must not be. 
It must not, must not be. 

Why, my fond heart, why beat'st thou so' 
The dream is fair to see — 

But bid the lovely flatterer go; 
It must not, must not be. 
Oh ! no, it must not be. 

'Tis well this tear in secret falls. 
This weakness suits not me ; 

I know where sterner duty calls: 
It must not, cannot be 
Oh!° no, it cannot be. 



THE BYZANTINE HERMIT. 

While the seat of empire was yet at Byzantium, 
and that city was the centre, not only of dominion, 
but of learning and politeness, a certain hermit had 
fixed his residence in a cell, on the banks of the 
Athyras, at the distance of about ten miles from the 
capital. The spot was retired, although so near the 
great city, and was protected, as well by woods and 
precipices as by the awful reverence with which, at 
that time, all ranks beheld the character of a recluse. 
Indeed, the poor old man, who tenanted the little 
hollow at the summit of a crag, beneath which the 
Athyras rolls its impetuous torrent, was not famed 
for the severity of his penances, or the strictness of 
his" mortifications. That he was either studious, or 
protracted his devotions to a late hour, was evident, 
for his lamp was often seen to stream through the 



KIRKE WHITE. 157 

trees which shaded his dwelling, when accident called 
any of the peasants from their beds at unseasonable 
hours. Be this as it may, no miracles were imputed 
to him ; the sick rarely came to petition for the benefit 
of his prayers, and, though some both loved him, 
and had good reason for loving him, yet many under- 
valued him for the want of that very austerity which 
the old man seemed most desirous to avoid. 

It was evening, and the long shadows of the Thra- 
cian mountains were extending still farther and farther 
along the plains, when this old man was disturbed in 
his meditations by the approach of a stranger. 'How 
far is it to Byzantium?' was the question put by the 
traveller. ' Not far to those who know the country,' 
rephed the hermit ; ' but a stranger would not easily 
find his way through the windings of these woods, 
and the intricacies of the plains beyond them. Do 
you see that blue mist which stretches along the 
bounding line of the horizon as far as the trees will 
permit the eye to trace it? That is the Propontis: 
and higher up on the left, the city of Constantinople 
rears its proud head above the waters. But I would 
dissuade thee, stranger, from pursuing thy journey 
farther to-night. Thou mayest rest in the village, 
which is half way down the hill ; or if thou wilt 
share my supper of roots, and put up with a bed of 
leaves, my cell is open to thee.' — ' I thank thee, 
father,' replied the youth : ' I am weary with my 
journey, and will accept thy proffered hospitality.' 
They ascended the rock together. The hermit's cell 
was the work of nature. It penetrated far into the 
rock, and in the innermost recess was a little chapel, 
furnished with a crucifix and a human skull, the 

objects of the hermit's 'nightly and daily conterapla- 
14 



158 KIRKE WHITE. 

tion, for neither of them received his adoration. That 
corruption had not as yet crept into the Christian 
church. The hermit now lighted up a fire of dry 
sticks (for the nights are very piercing in the regions 
about the Hellespont and the Bosphorus,) and then 
proceeded to prepare a vegetable meal. While he 
was thus employed, his young guest surveyed, with 
surprise, the dwelling which he was to inhabit 
for the night. A cold rock-hole on the bleak summit 
of one of the Thracian hills seemed to him a ccyn- 
fortless choice for a weak and solitary old man. The 
rude materials of his scanty furniture still more sur- 
prised him. A table fixed to the ground, a wooden 
bench, an earthen lamp, a number of roll^ of papyrus 
and vellum, and a heap of leaves in a corner, the 
hermit's bed, were all his stock. ' Is it possible,' at 
length he exclaimed, ' that you can tenant this com- 
fortless cave, with these scanty accommodations, 
through choice ? Go with me, old man, to Constanti- 
nople, and receive from me those conveniences which 
befit your years. ' And what art thou going to do at 
Constantinople, my young friend ?' said the hermit,. 
' for thy dialect bespeaks thee a native of more 
southern regions. Am I mistaken — art thou not an 
Athenian ? ' I am an Athenian,' replied the youth, 
' by birth, but I hope not an Athenian in vice. I have 
left my degenerate birthplace in quest of happiness. 
I have learned from my master, Speusippus, a 
genuine asserter of the much belied doctrines of Epi- 
curus, that as a future state is a mere phantom and 
vagary of the brain, it is the only true wisdom to en- 
joy life while we have it. But I have learned from 
him, also, that virtue alone is true enjoyment. I ain 
resolved, therefore, to enjoy life, and that too with 



KIRKE WHITE. 159 

virtue as my companion and guide. My travels are 
begun with the design of discovering where I can best 
unite both objects : enjoyment the most exquisite, 
with virtue the most perfect. You perhaps may have 
reached the latter, my good fether; the former you 
have certainly missed. To-morrow I shall continue 
my search. At Constantinople, I shall laugh and 
sing with the gay, meditate with the sober, drink, 
deeply of every unpolluted pleasure, and taste all the 
fountains of wisdom and philosophy. I have heard 
much of the accomplishments of the women of By- 
zantium. With us, females are mere household 
slaves; here, I am told, they have minds. I almost 
prtJmise myself that I shall marry and settle at Con- 
stantinople, where the loves and graces seem alone to 
reside, and where even the ivomen have minds. My 
good father, how the winds roar about this aerial nest 
of yours, and here you sit, during the long cold nights, 
all alone, cold and cheerless, when Constantinople is 
just at your feet, with all its joys, its comforts, and 
its elegancies. I perceive that the philosophers of our 
sect, who succeeded Epicurus, were right, when they 
taught that there might be virtue without enjoyment, 
and that virtue without enjoyment is not worth the 
having.' The face of the youth kindled with anima- 
tion as he spake these words, and he visibly enjoyed 
the consciousness of superior intelligence. The old 
man sighed and was silent. As they ate their frugal 
supper, both parties seemed involved in deep thought. 
The young traveller was dreaming of the Byzantine 
women: his host seemed occupied with far different 
meditations. « So you are travelling to Constantinople 
in search of happiness?' at length exclaimed the 
hermit: *Itoo have been a suitor of that divinity, 



160 KIRKE WHITE. 

and it may be of use to you to hear* how I have fared. 
The history of my life will serve to fill up the interval 
before we retire to rest, and my experience may not 
prove altogether useless to one who is about to go the 
same journey which I have finished. 

* These scanty hairs of mine were not always gray, 
nor these limbs decrepid: I was once, like thee, 
young, fresh, and vigorous, full of delightful dreams, 
and gay anticipations. Life seemed a garden of 
sweets, a path of roses; and I thought I had but to 
choose in what way I would be happy I will pass 
over the incidents of my boyhood, and come to my 
maturer years. I had scarcely seen twenty summers, 
when I formed one of those extravagant and ardent 
attachments, of which youth is so susceptible. It 
happened that, at that time, I bore arms under the 
emperor The odosLus, in his expedition against the 
Goths, who had overrun a part of Thrace. In our 
return from a successful campaign, we staid some 
time in the Greek cities which border on the Euxine. 
In one of these cities I became acquainted with a 
female, whose form was not more elegant than her 
mind was cultivated, and her heart untainted. I had 
done her family some trivial services, and her grati- 
tude spoke too warmly to my intoxicated brain to 
leave any doubt on my mind that she loved me. ' The 
idea was too exquisitely pleasing to be soon dismissed. 
I sought every occasion of being with her. Her mild 
persuasive voice seemed like the music of heaven to 
my ears, after the toils and roughness of a soldier's 
life. I had a friend, too, whose converse, next to that 
of the dear object of my secret love, was most dear to 
me. He formed the third in all our meetings ; and 
beyond the enjoyment of the society of these two, I 



KIRKE WHITE. 161 

had not a wish. I had never yet spoke explicitly to 
my female friend, but I fondly hoped we understood 
each other. Why should I dwell on the subject ? 
I was mistaken. My friend threw himself on my 
mercy. I found that he, not I, was the object of her 
affections. Young man, you may conceive, but I 
cannot describe, what I felt, as I joined their hands. 
The stroke was severe, and for a time unfitted me 
for the duties of my station. I suffered the army to 
leave the place without accompanying it: and thus 
lost the reward of my past services, and forfeited the 
favour of my sovereign. This was another source of 
anxiety and regret to me, as my mind recovered its 
wonted tone. But the mind of youth, however deeply 
it may feel for awhile, eventually rises up from dejec- 
tion, and regains its wonted elasticity. That vigor 
by which the spirit recovers itself from the depths of 
useless regret, and enters upon new prospects with its 
accustomed ardor, is only subdued by time. I now 
applied myself to the study of philosophy, under a 
Greek master, and all my ambition was directed 
towards letters. But ambition is not quite enough to 
fill a young man's heart. I still felt a void there, 
and sighed as I reflected on the happiness of my 
friend. At the time when I visited the object of my 
fii-st love, a young Christian woman, her frequent 
companion, had sometimes taken my attention. She 
was an Ionian by birth, and had all the softness and 
pensive intelligence which her countrywomen are said 
to possess when unvitiated by the corruptions so pre- 
valent in that delightful region. You are no stranger 
to the contempt with which the Greeks then treated, 
and do still, in some places, treat the Christians. This 
young woman bore that contempt with a calmnesp 
14* 



162 KIRKE WHITE. 

which surprised me. There was then but few con- 
verts to that religion in those parts, and its profession 
was therefore more exposed to ridicule and persecu- 
tion from its strangeness. Notwithstanding her reli- 
gion, I thought I could love this interesting and 
amiable female, and, in spite of my former mistake, 
I had the vanity to imagine I was not indifferent to 
her. As our intimacy increased, I learned, to my 
astonishment, that she regarded me as one involved in 
ignorance and error; and that, although she felt an 
affection for me, she would never become my wife 
while I remained devoted to the religion of my ances- 
tors. Piqued at this discovery, I received the books, 
which she now for the first time put into my hands, 
with pity and contempt. I expected to find them 
nothing but the repositories of a miserable and de 
luded superstition, more presuming than the mystical 
leaves of the Sibyls, or the obscure triads of Zoroas- 
ter. How was I mistaken! There was much which 
I could not at all comprehend; but, in the midst of 
this darkness, the effect of my ignorance, I discerned 
a system of morality so exalted, so exquisitely pure, 
and so far removed from all I could have conceived 
of the most perfect virtue, that all the philosophy of 
the Grecian world seemed worse than dross in the 
comparison. My former learning had only served to 
teach me that something was wanting to complete 
the systems of philosophers. Here that invisible link 
was supplied, and I could even then observe a har- 
mony and consistency in the whole which carried irre- 
sistible conviction to my mind. I will not enlarge on 
this subject. Christianity is not a mere set of opi- 
nions to be embraced by the understanding. It is the 
work of the heart as well as the head. Let it suffice 



KIRKK WHITE. 163 

to say that, in time, I became a Ciiristian, and the 

husband of Sapphira. 

******* 

CESrSORIOUSNESS. 

When I was in Nottingham, I gave way too much 
to a practice, which prevails there in a shameful de- 
gree, of sitting in judgment on the attainments and 
experience of others. At this time there was darkness 
enough in my own heart to have employed all my 
attention, and I think it may be generally asserted, 
that those who are the readiest to examine others are 
the most backward to examine themselves; that the 
more we feel inclined to scrutinize our brother Chris- 
tians with severity, the less able are we to endure such 
a scrutiny ourselves. Before Christianity can arrive 
at any degree of perfeclion, we must have less tongue 
and more heart work. If a man be faithful to his con- 
victions, he will find too much to do at home to busy 
himself with what he has no opportunities of suffi- 
ciently knowing, — his neighbor's heart. We are to 
consider ourselves at all times as miserably ignorant; 
and it is only while we do consider ourselves as such 
that we are in a disposition to learn of a teacher 
so averse to the pride of the human heart as Jesus 
Christ. 

CHILDREN. 

I hope you concluded the Christmas holidays on 
Monday evening with the customary glee ; and I hope 
my uncle was well enough to partake of your merri- 
ment. You must now begin your penitential days, 
after so much riot and feasting ; and, with your three 
little prattlers around you, I am sure your evenings 
will flow pleasantly by your own fireside. Visiting 



164 KIRKE WHITE. 

and gaiety are very well by way of change; but there 
is no enjoyment so lasting as that of one's own family. 
Elizabeth will soon be old enough to amuse you with 
her conversation; and, I trust, you will take every 
opportunity of teaching her to put the right value on 
things, and to exercise her own good sense. It is 
amazing how soon a child may become a real comfort 
to its mother, and how much even young minds will 
form habits of affection towards those who treat them 
like reasonable beings, capable of seeing the right and 
the wrong of themselves. A very little girl may be 
made to understand that there are some things which 
are pleasant and amusing, which are still less worthy 
of attention than others more disagreeable and painful. 
Children are, in general, fond of little ornaments of 
dress, especially females; and though we may allow 
them to be elevated with their trifling splendors, yet we 
should not forget to remind them, that, although peo- 
ple may admire their dress, yet they will admire them 
much more for their good sense, sweetness of temper, 
and generosity of disposition. Children are very quick- 
sighted to discern whether you approve of them, and 
they are very proud of your approbation when they 
think you bestow it: we should therefore be careful 
how we praise them, and for what. If we praise their 
dress, it should be slightly, and as if it were a matter 
of very small importance; but we should never let any 
mark of consideration, or goodness of heart, in a child, 
pass by, without some token of approbation. Still we 
must never praise a child too much, nor too warmly, 
for that would beget vanity: and when praise is mode 
rately yet judiciously bestowed, a child values it more, 
because it feels that it is just. I don't like punishments 
You will never torture a child into duty; but a sensi 



KIRKE WHITE. 165 

ble child will dread the frown, of a judicious mother, 
more than all the rods, dark rooms, and scolding 
school-mistresses in the universe. We should teach our 
children to make friends of us, to communicate all their 
thoughts to us; and while their innocent prattle will 
amuse us, we shall find many opportunities of teaching 
them important truths, almost without knowing it. 

COMPOSITION. 

The rules of composition are, in my opinion, very 
few. If we have a mature acquaintance with our sub- 
ject, there is little fear of our expressing it as we ought, 
provided we have had some little experience in writing. 
Thft first thing to be aimed at is perspicuity. That is 
the great point, which, once attained, will make all 
other obstacles smooth to us. In order to write per- 
spicuously we should have zl perfect knowledge of the 
topic on which we are about to treat, in all its bearings 
and dependencies. We should think well beforehand 
what will be the clearest method of conveying the drift 
of our design. This is similar to what the painters call 
the massing, or getting the effect of the more promi- 
nent lights and shades by broad dashes of the pencil. 
When our thesis is well arranged in our mind, and we 
have predisposed our arguments, reasonings, and illus- 
trations, so as they shall conduce to the object in view, 
in regular sequence and gradation, we may sit down 
and express our ideas in as clear a manner as we can, 
always using such words as are most suited to our 
purpose; and when two modes of expression, equally 
luminous, present themselves, selecting that which is 
the most harmonious and elegant. 

It sometimes happens that writers, in aiming at per- 
spicuity, overreach themselves, by employing too 



166 KIRKE WHITE. 

many words, and perplex the mind by a multiplicity of 
illustrations. This is a very fatal error. Circumlo- 
cution seldom conduces to plainness ; and you may 
take it as a maxim, that when once an idea is clearly 
expressed, every additional stroke will only confuse 
the mind, and diminish the effect. 

When you have once learned to express yourself 
with clearness and propriety, you will soon arrive at 
elegance. Every thing else, in fact, will follow as of 
course. But I warn you not to invert the order of 
things, and be paying your addresses to the Graces, 
when you ought to be studying perspicuity. Young 
writers, in general, are too solicitous to round off their 
periods, and regulate the cadences of their style. 
Hence the feeble pleonasms and idle repetitions which 
deform their pages. If you would have your compo- 
sitions vigorous, and masculine in their tone, let every 
word tell; and when you detect yourself polishing off 
a sentence with expletives, regard yourself in exactly 
the same predicament with a poet who should eke out 
the measure of his verses with ' titum, titom, tee, sir.' 

So much for style — 

******** 

Accustom yourself to write down your thoughts, and 
to polish the style some time after composition, when 
you have forgotten the expression. Aim at concise- 
ness, neatness, and clearness ; never make use o^ fine 
or vulgar words. Avoid every epithet which does not 
add greatly to the idea, for every addition of this 
kind, if it do not strengthen, weakens the sentiment ; 
and be cautious never to express by two words what 
you can do as well by one : a multiplicity of words 
only hides the sense, just as a superabundance of 
clothes does the shape. This much for studies. 



KIRKE WHITE. 167 



CONFIDENCE IN SELF. 



As to the something that I am to find out, that is 
a perpetual bar to your progress in knowledge, &c., 
I am inclined to think, Doctor, it is merely conceit. 
You fancy that you cannot write a letter — you dread 
its idea; you conceive that a work of four volumes 
would require the labors of a life to read through; 
you persuade yourself that you cannot retain what 
you read, and in despair not to attempt to conquer 
these visionary impediments. Confidence, Neville, 
in one's own abilities, is a sure forerunner (in similar 
circumstances with the present) of success. As an 
illustration of this, I beg leave to adduce the example 
of Pope, who had so high a sense, in his youth, or 
rather in his infancy, of his own capacity, that there 
was nothing of which, when once set about, he did 
not think himself capable ; and, as Dr. Johnson has ob- 
served, the natural consequence of this minute per- 
ception of his own powers was his arriving at as high 
a pitch of perfection as it was possible for a man with 
his few natural endowments to attain. 



DESPONDENCE. 



And now, my dear Ben, I must confess your letter 
gave me much pain; there is a tone of despondence in 
it which I must condemn, inasmuch as it is occasioned 
by circumstances which do not involve your own ex- 
ertions, but which are utterly independent of yourself: 
if you do your duty, why lament that it is not pro- 
ductive ? In whatever situation we may be placed, 
there is a duty we owe to God and religion: it is 
resignation; — nay, I may say contentment. All 



168 KIRKE WHITE. 

things are in the hands of God; and shall we mortals 
(if we do not absolutely repine at his dispensations) 
be fretful under them? I do beseech you, my dear 
Ben, summon up the Christian within you, and, 
steeled with holy fortitude, go on your way rejoicing! 
There is a species of morbid sensibility to which I 
myself have often been a victim, which preys upon 
my heart, and, without giving birth to one actively 
useful or benevolent feeling, does but brood on selfish 
sorrows, and magnify its own misfortunes. The evils 
of such a sensibility, I pray to God you may never 
feel; but I would have you beware, for it grows on 
persons of a certain disposition before they are aware 
ofit. 



There are sorrows, and there are misfortunes which 
bow down the spirit beyond the aid of all human 
comfort. Of these, I know, my dear Ben, you have 
had more than common experience; but while the 
cup of life does ovevflow with draughts of such ex- 
treme asperity, we ought to fortify ourselves against 
lesser evils, as unimportant to man, who has much 
heavier woes to expect, and to the Christian, whose 
joys are laid beyond the verge of mortal existence. 
There are afflictions, there are privations, where death 
and hopes irrecoverably blasted, leave no prospect of 
retrivial; when I would no more say to the mourner 
'Man, wherefore weepest thou?' than I would ask 
the winds why they blew, or the tempest why it raged» 
Sorrows like these are sacred; but the inferior troubles 
oi partial separation, vexatious occupation, and op- 
posing current of human affairs, are such as ought 
not, at least immoderately, to affect a Christian, but 



KIRKE WHITE. 169 

rather ought to be contemplated as the necessary ac- 
cidents oi\\iQ.>^vA^\BXQg9LxA.'&^\i\iA'Q their pains are 
more sensibly felt. 

Do not think, I beseech you, my dear Ben, that I 
wish to represent your sorrows, as light or trivial* 
I know they are not hght ; I know they are not 
trivial; but I wish to induce you to summon up the 
man within you; and while those unhappy troubles, 
which you cannot alleviate, must continue to torment 
you, I would exhort you to rise superior to the crosses 
of life, and shew yourself a genuine disciple of Jesus 
Christ, iji the endurance of evil without repining, or 
unavailable lamentations. 

Biest as you are with the good testimony of an ap- 
proving conscience, and happy in an intimate com- 
munion with the all-pure and all-merciful God, these 
trifling concerns ought not to molest you; nay, were 
the tide of adversity to turn strong against you, 
even were your friends to forsake you, and abject 
poverty to stare you in the face, you ought to be 
abundantly thankful to God for his mercies to you; 
you ought to consider yourself still as rich, yea, to 
look around you, and say, 1 am far happier than 
the sons of men. 

This is a system of philosophy which, for myself, 
I shall not only preach but practice. We are here for 
nobler purposes than to waste the fleeting moments 
of our lives in lamentations and wailings over troubles, 
which, in their widest extent, do but effect the present 
state, and which, perhaps, only regard our personal 
ease and prosperity^ Make me an outcast — a beggar; 
place me, a barefooted pilgrim, on the top of the Alps 
or the Pyrenees, and I should have wherewithal to 
sustain the spirit witliin me, in the reflection that all 
15 



jYQ KIRKE WHITE. 

this was but for a moment, and that a period would 
come, when wrong, and injury, and trouble should be 
no more. Are we to be so utterly enslaved by habit 
and association, that we shall spend our lives in anxi- 
ety and bitter care, only that we may find a covering 
for our bodies, or the means of assuaging hunger ? 
for what else is an anxiety after the world? Or are 
even the followers of Christ themselves to be infected 
with the inane, the childish desire of heaping together 
wealth? "VV^ere a man, in the way of making a large 
fortune, to take up his hat and stick, and say, ' I am 
useless here and unhappy; I will go and abide with 
the Gentoo, or the Paraguay, where I shall be happy 
and useful,' he would be laughed at; but I say he 
would prove himself a more reasonable and virtuous 
man than him who binds himself down to a business 
which he dislikes, because it would be accounted 
strange, or foolish, to abandon so good a concern, 
and who heaps up wealth, for which he has little 
relish, because the world accounts its policy. 

^ 5^ ^ t^ *P <V H" 

I hope and trust that you have at length arrived at 
that happy temperament of disposition, that although 
you have much cause of sadness within, you are yet 
willing to be amused with the variegated scenes 
around you, and to join, when occasions p^rsent 
themselves in innocent mirth. Thus, in the course 
of your peregrinations, occurrences must continually 
arise, which, to a mind willing to make the best of 
every thing, will afford amusement of the chastest 
kind. Men and manners are a never-failing source of 
wonder and surprise, as they present themselves in 
their various phases. We may very innocently laugh 
at the brogue of a Somerset peasant — and I should 



KIRKE WHITE. 



171 



think that person both cynical and surly, who would 
pass by a group of laughing children, without parti- 
cipating in their delight, and joining in their laugh. 
It is a truth most undeniable, and most melancholy, 
that there is too much in human life which extorts 
tears and groans, rather than smiles. This, however, 
is equally certain, that our giving way to unremitting 
sadness on these accounts, so far from ameliorating 
the condition of mortality, only adds to the aggregate 
of human misery, and throws a gloom over those 
moments when a ray of light is permitted to visit the 
dark valley of life, and the heart ought to be making 
the best of its fleeting happiness. Landscape, too, 
oufht to be a source of delight to you; fine buildings, 
objects of nature, and a thousand things which it 
would be tedious to name. I should call the man 
who could survey such things as these without being 
affected with pleasure, either a very weak-minded 
and foolish person, or one of no mind at all. To be 
always sad, and always pondering on internal griefs, 
is what I call utter selfishness: I wAuld not give two- 
pence for a being who is locked up in his own suffer- 
ings, and whose heart cannot respond to the exhi- 
larating cry of nature, or rejoice because he sees others 
rejoice. The loud and unanimous chirping of the 
birds on*a fine sunny morning pleases me, because I 
see they are happy; and I should be very selfish did 
I not participate in their seeming joy. Do not, how- 
ever, suppose that I mean to exclude a man's own 
sorrows from his thoughts, since that is an impossi- 
bility, and, were it possible, would be prejudicial to 
the human heart. I only mean that the whole mind 
is not to be incessantly engrossed with cares, but with 
cheerful elasticity to bend itself occasionally to circum- 



172 KIRKE WHITE. 

stances, and give way without hesitation to pleasing 
emotions. To be pleased with little is one of the 
greatest blessings. 

Sadness is itself sometimes infinitely more pleasing 
than joy; but this sadness must be of the expansive 
and generous kind, rather referring to mankind at 
large, than the individual; and this is a feeling not 
incompatible with cheerfulness and a contented spirit. 
There is difficulty, however, in setting bounds to a 
pensive disposition; I have felt it, and I have felt 
that I am iiot always adequate to the task. I sailed 
from Hull to Barton the day before yesterday, on a 
rough and windy day, in a vessel filled with a 
marching regiment of soldiers: the band played 
finely, and I was enjoying the many pleasing emo- 
tions, which the water, sky, winds, and musical in- 
struments excited, when my thoughts were suddenly 
called away to more melancholy subjects. A girl, 
genteelly dressed, and with a countenance which, for 
its loveliness, a painter might have copied for Hebe, 
with a loud laugh seized me by the great coat, and 
asked me to lend it her: she was one of those unhappy 
creatures who depend on the brutal and licentious for 
a bitter livelihood, and was now following in the train 
of one of the officers. I was greatly afiected by her 
appearance and situation, and more so b^ that of 
another female who was with her, and who, with less 
beauty, had a wild sorrowfulness in her face, which 
showed she knew her situation. This incident, appa- 
rently trifling, induced a train of reflections, which 
occupied me fully during a walk of six or seven miles 
to our parsonage. At first I wished that I had fortune 
to erect an asylum for all the miserable and destitute: 
— and there was a soldier's wife, with a wan and 



KIRKE WHITE. 173 

haggard face, and a little infant in her arms, whom 
I would also have wished to place in it: — I then 
grew out of humor with the world, because it was so 
unfeeling and so miserable, and because there was no 
cure for its miseries : and I wished for a lodging in the 
wilderness, where I might hear no more of wrongs, 
affliction, or vice: but, after all my speculations, I found 
there was a reason for these things in the Oospel of 
Jesus Christ, and that, to those who sought it, there 
was also a cure. So I banished my vain meditations, 
and, knowing that God's providence is betted able to 
direct the affairs of men than our wisdom, I leave 
them in his hands. 

Forebodings and dismal calculations are, I am con- 
vinced, very useless, and I think very pernicious spe- 
culations — ' Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.' 
— -And yet how apt are we, when eminent trials molest 
us, to increase the burden by melancholy ruminations 
on future evils! — evils which exist only in our own 
imaginations — and which, should they be realized, 
will certainly arrive in time to oppress us sufficiently 
without our adding to their existence by previous 
apprehension, and thus voluntarily incurring the pe- 
nalty of misfortunes yet in perspective, and trials 
yet unborn. Let us guard, then, I beseech you, 
against these ungrateful divinations into the womb of 
futurity: — we know our affairs are in the hands of one 
who has wisdom to do for us beyond our narrow 
prudence, and we cannot, by taking thought, avoid 
any afflictive dispensation which God's providence 
may have in store for us. Let us therefore enjoy 
with thankfulness the present sunshine, without ad- 
verting to the common storm. Few and transitory 
15* 



174 KIRKE WHITE. 

are the intervals of calm and settled day with which 

we are cheered in the tempestuous voyage of life ; we 

ought therefore to enjoy them, while they last, with 

unmixed delight, and not turn the blessing into a 

curse by lamenting that it cannot endure without 

interruption. We, my beloved friend, are united in 

our affections by no common bands — ^bands which, I 

trust, are too strong to be easily dissevered:— yet we 

know not what God may intend with respect to us, 

nor have we any business to inquire — we should rely 

on the mercy of our Father, who is in heaven — and if 

we are to anticipate, we should hope the best. I 

fe'tand self-accused therefore for my prurient, and, I 

may say, irreligious fears. A prudent foresight, as 

it may guard us froni many impending dangers, ip 

laudable ; but a morbid propensity to seize and brood 

over future ills is agonizing, while it is utterly useless, 

and therefore ought to be repressed. 

* * * * * * ** 

I begin now to feel at home in my little room, and 
I wish you were here to see how snugly I sit by my 
blazing fire in the cold evenings. College certainly 
has charms, though I have a few things rankling at 
my heart which will not let me be quite happy. — Ora, 
or a, pro me. 

This last sentence of mine is of a very curious ten- 
dency, to be sure: for who is there of mortals who 
has not something rankling at his heart, which will 
not let him be happy ? 

It is curious to observe the different estimations 
two men make of one another's happiness. Each of 
them surveys the external appearance of the other's 
situation, and, comparing them with the secret dis- 
quieting circumstances of his own, thinks him hap- 



KIRKE WHITE. 175 

pier; and so it is, that, all the world over, be we 
favoured as we may, there is always something which 
others have, and which we ourselves have not, neces- 
sary to the completion of our felicity. I think, 
therefore, upon the whole, there is no such thing as 
positive happiness in this world; and a man can only 
be deemed felicitous as he is in comparision less 
affected with positive evil. It is our business, there- 
fore, to support ourselves under existing ills with the 
anticipation of future blessings. Life, with all its 
bitters, is a draught soon drunk: and though^we have 
many changes on this side the grave, beyond it we 
know of none. 

"^our life and mine are now marked out ; and our 
calling is of such a nature, that it ill becomes us to 
be too much affected with circumstances of an external 
nature. It is our duty to bear our evils with dignified 
silence. Considering our superior consolations, they 
are small in comparison with those of others ; and 
though they may cast a sadness both over our hearts 
and countenances, which time may not easily remove, 
yet they must not interfere with our active duties, nor 
affect our conduct towards others, except by opening 
our hearts with warmer sympathy to their woes, their 
wants, and miseries. 

FAITH INDISPENSABIjE. 

It will give me great pleasure to hear that your la- 
bours have been successful in the town of * * *, 
where, I fear, much is to be done. I am one of those 
who think that the love of virtue is not sufficient to 
make a virtuous man; for the love of virtue is a mere 
mental preference of the beautiful to the deformed; 
and we see but too often that immediate gratification 



176 KIRKE WHITE. 

outweighs the dictates of our judgment. If men 
could always perform their duty as well as they can 
discern it, or if they would attend to their real inte- 
rests as well as they can see them, there would be 
little occasion for moral instruction. Sir Richard 
Steele, who wrote like a saint, and who, in his Chris- 
tian Hero, shows the strongest marks of a religious 
and devout heart, lived, notwithstanding all this, a 
drunkard and a debauchee. And what can be the 
cause of this apparent contradiction? Was it that he 
had not strength of mind to' act up to hjs views? 
Then a man's salvation may depend on strength of 
intellect! Or does not this rather show that supe- 
rior motives are wanting? that assistance is yet ne- 
cessary, when the ablest of men has done his utmost? 
If then such aid be necessary, how can it be obtained? 
— by a virtuous life? — Surely not: because, to live 
really a virtuous live implies this aid to have been 
first given. We are told in Scripture how it may be 
attained, namely, by humble trust in the Lord Jesus 
Christ, as our atoning sacrifice. This, therefore, is 
the foundation of religious life, and, as such, ought to 
be the fundamental principle of religious instruction. 
This is the test of our obedience, the indispensable 
preliminary, before we can enjoy the favour of God. 
What, therefore, can we urge with more propriety 
from the pulpit than faith? — to preach morality 
does not include the principle of faith — to preach 
faith includes every branch of morality, at the same 
time that it affords it its present sanctions and its 
strongest incitements. 



KIRKE WHITE. 177 

FORENSIC ELOQUENCE. 

Had I any certain expectation of hearing you ad- 
dress the Court or Jury swoin at Kirton, no circum- 
stances should prevent me from being present; so do 
I long to mark the dawnings of that eloquence which 
will one day ring through every court in the Midland 
Circuit. I think the noise of * * *, the overbearing 
petulance of * * *, and the decent assurance of * * *, 
will readily yield to that pure, chaste, and manly 
eloquence, which, I have no doubt, you chiefly culti- 
vate. It seems to me, who am certainly no very 
competent judge, that there is a uniform inode, or art, 
of jfleading in our courts, which is in itself faulty, 
and is moreover a bar to the higher excellencies. 
You know, before a barrister begirtS, in what manner 
he will treat the subject; you anticipate his positive- 
nesSi his complete confidence in the stability of his 
case, his contempt of his opponent, his voluble exag- 
geration, and the vehemence of his indignation. All 
these are as of course. It is no matter what sort of 
face the business assume: if Mr. be all impe- 
tuosity, astonishment, and indignation, on one side, 
we know he would not have been a whit less impetu- 
ous, less astonished, or less indignant, on the other, 
had he happened to have been retained. It is true, 
this assurance of success, this contempt of an oppo- 
nent, and dictatorial decision in speaking, are calcu- 
lated to have effect on the minds of a jury; and if it 
be the business of a counsel to obtain his ends by awy 
means, he is right to adopt them; but the misfortune 
is, that all these things are mechanical, and as much 
in the power of the opposite counsel as in your own; 
so that it is not so much who argues best, as who 



178 KIRKE WHITE. 

speaks last, loudest, and longest. True eloquence, 
on the other hand, is confident only where there is 
real ground for confidence, trusts more to reason and 
facts than to imposing declamation, and seeks rather 
to convince than dazzle. The obstreperous rant of a 
pleader may, for a while, intimidate a jury; but plain 
and manly argument, delivered in a candid and inge- 
nuous manner, will ftiore effectually work upon their 
understandings, and will make an impression on which 
the froth of declamation will be lost. I think a man 
who would plead in this manner, would gain the con- 
fidence of a jury, and would find the avenues of their 
hearts much more open, than a man of more assu- 
rance, who, by too much confidence, where there is 
much doubt, and too much vehemence, where there is 
greater need of coolness, puts his hearers continually 
in mind that he is pleading for hire. There seems to 
me so much beauty in truth, that I could wish our 
barristers would make a distinction between cases, in 
their opinion well or ill-founded, embarking their 
whole heart and soul in the one, and contenting them- 
selves with a perspicuous and forcible statement of 
their client's case in the other 

FRIEND HUNTERS. 

The world has often heard of fortune-hunters, le- 
gacy-hunters, popularity-hunters, and hunters of va- 
rious descriptions — one diversity, however, of this very 
extensive species has hitherto eluded public animad- 
version; I allude to the class of friend-hunters — men 
who make it the business of their lives to acquire 
friends, in the hope, through their influence, to arrive 
at some desirable point of ambitious eminence. Of 
all the mortifications and anxieties to which mankind 



KIRKE WHITE. 179 

voluntarily subject themselves from the expectation 
of future benefit, there are, perhaps, none more gall- 
ing, none more insupportable, than those attendant on 
friend-making. Show a man that you court his so- 
ciety, and it is a signal for him to treat you with 
neglect and contumely; humour his passions, and 
he despises you as a sycophant; pay implicit defer- 
ence to his opinions, and he laughs at you for your 
folly: in all, he views you with contempt, as the 
creature of his will, and the slave of his caprice 
I remember I once solicited the acquaintance and co- 
veted the friendship of one man, and, thank God, I 
can yet say (and I hope on my deathbed I shall be 
able to say the same) of only one man. 

Germanicus was a character of considerable emi- 
nence in the literary world. He had the reputation 
not only of an enlightened understanding and refined 
taste, but of openness of heart and goodness of dispo- 
sition. His name always carried with it that weight 
and authority which are due to learning and genius 
in every situation. His manners were polished, and 
his conversation elegant. In short, he possessed 
every qualification which could render him an envia- 
ble addition to the circle of every man's friends. 
With such a character, as I was then very young, I 
could not fail to feel an ambition of becoming ac- 
quainted, when the opportunity offered, and in a short 
time we were upon terms of familiarity. To ripen 
this familiarity into friendship, as far as the most 
awkward diffidence would permit, was my strenuous 
endeavour. If his opinions contradicted mine, I imme- 
diately, without reasoning on the subject, conceded 
the point to him, as a matter of course, that he must 
be right, and by consequence that I must be wrong. 



180 KIRK.E WHITE. 

Did he utter a witticism, I was sure to laugh; and 
if he looked grave, though nobody could tell why, it 
was mine to groan. By thus conforming myself to 
his humour, I flattered myself I was making some 
progress in his good graces, but I was soon unde- 
ceived. A man seldom cares much for that which 
costs hira no pains to procuure. Whether Germanicus 
found me a troublesome visiter, or whether he was 
really displeased with something I had unwittingly 
said or done, certain it is, that when I met him one 
day, in company with persons of apparent figure, he 
had lost all recollection of my features. I called upon 
him, but Germanicus was not at home. Again and 
again I gave a hesitating knock at the great man's 
door. All was to no purpose — he was still not at 
home. The sly meaning, however, which was 
couched in the sneer of the servant the last time that, 
half ashamed of my errand, I made my enquiries at 
his house, convinced me of what I ought to have 
known before, that Germanicus was at home to all 
the world save me. I believe, with all my seeming 
humility, I am a confounded proud fellow at bottom; 
my rage at this discovery, therefore, may be better 
conceived than described. Ten thousand curses did 
I imprecate on the foolish vanity which led me to soli- 
cit the friendship of my superiors, and again and again 
did I vow down eternal vengeance on ray head, if I 
ever more condescended thus to court the acquaint- 
ance of man. To this resolution I beheve I shall ever 
adhere. If I am destined to make any progress in the 
world, it will be by my own individual exertions. 
As I elbow my way through the crowded vale of life, 
I will never, in any emergency, call on my selfish 
neighbour for assistance. If my strength give way 



KIRKE WHITE. 181 

beneath the pressure of calamity, I shall sink without 
his whine of hypocritical condolence; and if I do 
sink, let him kick me into a ditch, and go about his 
business. I asked not his assistan»ce while living, it* 
will be of no service to me when dead. 

Believe me, reader, whoever thou mayest be, there 
are few among mortals, whose friendship, when ac- 
quired, will repay thee for the meanness of solicita- 
tion. If a man voluntarily holds out his hand to 
thee, take it with caution. If thou find him honest, 
be not backward to receive his proffered assistance, 
and be anxious, when occasion shall require, to yield 
to him thine own. A real friend is the most valuable 
blessing a man can possess, and, mark me, it is by 
far the most rare. It is a black swan. But, what- 
ever thou mayest do, solicit not friendship. If thou 
art young, and wouldst make thy way in the world, 
bind thyself a seven years' apprentice to a city tal- 
low-chandler, and thou mayest in time come to be 
lord mayor. Many people have made their fortunes 
at a tailor's board. Periwig-makers have been known 
to buy their country-seats, and bellows-menders have 
started their curricles; but seldom, very seldom, has 
the man who placed his dependence on the friendship 
of his fellow-men arrived at even the shadow of the 
honours to which, through that medium, he aspired. 
Nay, even if thou shouldst find a friend ready to lend 
thee a helping hand, the moment, by his assistance, 
thou hast gained some little eminence, he will be the 
first to hurl thee down to thy primitive, and now, per- 
haps, irremediable obscurity. 

Yet I see no more reason for complaint on the ground 
of the fallacy of human friendship, than I do for any 
other ordinance of nature, which may appear to run 
16 



182 KIRKE WHITE. 

counter to our happiness, Man is naturally a selfish 
creatuie, audit is only by the aid of philosophy that 
he can so far conquer the defects of his being, as to be 
capable of disinterested friendship. Who, then, can 
expect to find that benign disposition, which manifests 
itself in acts of disinterested benevolence and sponta- 
neous affection, a common visiter? Who can preach 
philosophy to tte mob? 

The recluse, who does not easily assimilate with the 
herd of mankind, and whose manners with diflriculty 
bend to the peculiarities of others, is not likely to have 
m3iny real friends. His enjoyments, therefore, must 
be solitary, lone, and melancholy. His only friend is 
himself. As he sits immersed in reverie by his mid- 
night fire, and hears without the wild gusts of wind 
fitfully careering over the plain, he listens sadly atten- 
tive; and as the varied intonations of the howling 
blast articulate to his enthusiastic ear, he converses 
with the spirits of the departed, while, between each 
dreary pause of the storm, he holds solitary com- 
munion with himself. Such is the social intercourse 
of the recluse ; yet he frequently feels the soft consola- 
tions of friendship. A heart formed for the gentler 
emotions of the soul often feels as strong an interest 
for what are called brutes, as most bipeds affect to 
feel for each other. Montaigne had his cat; I have 
read of a man whose only friend was a large spider; 
and Trenck, in his dungeon, would sooner have lost his 
right hand than the poor little mouse, which, grown 
confident with indulgence, used to beguile the tedious 
hours of imprisonment with its gambols. For my own 
part, I believe my dog, who, at this moment, seated 
on his hinder legs, is wistfully surveying me, as if he 
was conscious of all that is passing in my mind, — my 



KIRKE WHITE. 183 

dog, I say, is as sincere, and, whatever the world may 
say, nearly as dear a friend as any I possess; and, 
when I shall receive that summons which may not 
now be far distant, he will whine a funeral requiem 
over my grave more piteously than all the hired 
mourners in Christendom. Well, well, poor Bob has 
had a kind master of me, and, for my own part, I 
verily believe there are few things on this earth I shall 
leave with more regret than this faithful companion of 
the happy hours of my infancy. 

GYPS. 

^?his place is literally a den of thieves: my bed- 
maker, whom we call a gyp, from a Greek word signi- 
fying a vulture, runs away with every thing he can lay 
his hands on, and, when he is caught, says he only 
borrows them. He stole a sack of coals a-week, as 
regularly as the week came, when first I had fires; 
but I have stopped the run of this business, by a 
monstrous large padlock, which is hung to the staple 
of the bin. His next trick was to bring me four can- 
dles for a pound, instead of six; and this trade he car- 
ried on for some time, until I accidentally discovered 
the trick: he then said he had always brought me 
right until that time, and that then he had brought me 
fives, but had given Mr. H. (a man on the same stair- 
case) one, because he thought he understood I had 
borrowed one of him: on inquiring of Mr. H. he had 
not given him one according to his pretence: but the 
gentleman was not caught yet, for he declared he had 
lent one to the bed-maker of Lord B. in the rooms 
below. His neatest trick is going to the grocer every 
now and then for articles in your name, which he con- 



184 KIRKE WHITE. 

verts to his own use. I have stopped him here, too, 
by keeping a check-book. Tea, sugar, and pocket- 
handkerchiefs, are his natural perquisites, and I verily 
beheve he will soon be filling his canister out of mine 
before my face. There is no redress for all this; for 
if you change, you are no better off: they are all alike. 
They know you regard them as a pack of thieves, and 
their only concern is to steal so dexterously that they 
may not be confronted with direct proof. 

THE HAPPIEST STATE. 

It is a remark of an ancient philosophical poet 
(Horace,) that every man thinks his neighbour's con- 
dition happier than his own; and, indeed, common 
experience shows that we are too apt to entertain ro- 
mantic notions of absent, and to think meanly of pre- 
sent things; to extol what we have had no experience 
of, and to be discontented with what we possess. The 
man of business sighs for the sweets of leisure: the 
person, who, with a taste for reading, has few oppor- 
tunities for it, thinks that man's life the sum of bliss 
who has nothing to do but to study. Yet it often hap- 
pens that the condition of the envier is happier than 
that of the envied. You have read Dr. Johnson's tale 
of the poor Tallow-Chandler, who, after sighing for 
the quiet of country life, at length scraped money 
enough to retire, but found his long-sought-for leisure 
so insupportable, that he made a voluntary offer to his 
successor to come up to town every Friday, and melt 
tallow for him gratis. It would be so with half of the 
men of business who sigh so earnestly for the sweets 
of retirement ; and you may receive it as one of the 
maturest observations I have been able to make on 



KIRKE WHITE. 185 

human life, that there is no condition so happy as that 
of him who leads a life of full and constant employ- 
ment. His amusements have a zest which men of 
pleasure would gladly undergo all his drudgery to ex- 
perience ; and the regular succession of business, pro- 
vided his situation be not too anxious, drives away 
from his brain those harassing speculations which are 
continually assaulting the man of leisure and the man 
of reading. The studious man, though his pleasures 
are of the most refined species, finds cares and disturb- 
jng thoughts in study. To think much and deeply 
will soon make a man sad. His thoughts, ever on the 
wing, often carry him where he shudders to be even 
in imagination. He is like a man ever in sleep — some- 
times his dreams are pleasing, but at others, horror it- 
self takes possession of his imagination: and this ine- 
quality of mind is almost inseparable from much me- 
ditation and mental exercise. From this cause it often 
happens, that lettered and philosophical men are 
peevish in their tempers, and austere in their manners. 
The inference I would draw from these remarks is 
generally this, that although every man carries about 
him the seeds of happiness or misery in his own bosom, 
yet it is a truth not liable to many exceptions, that 
men are more equally free from anxiety and care, in 
proportion as they recede from the more refined and 
mental to the grosser and bodily employments and 
modes of life, but that the happiest condition is placed 
in the middle, between the extremes of both. Thus a 
person with a moderate love of reading, and few op- 
portunies of indulging it, would be inclined to envy 
one in my situation, because such a one has nothing to 
do but to read: but I could tell him, that though my 
studious pleasures are more comprehensive than his, 
16* 



186 KIUKK WHITE. 

they are not more exquisite, and that an occasional 
banquet gives more delight than a continual feast 
Reading should be dearer to you than to me, because 
I always rea4, and you but seldom. 

HEROIC ATTACHMENT. 

Perhaps it may be the opinion of a young man, but 
I think the old system of heroic attachment, with 
all its attendant notions of honor and spotlessness, 
was, in the end, calculated to promote the interests of 
the human race ; for though it produced a temporary 
alienation of mind, perhaps bordering on insanity, yet, 
with the very extravagance and madness of the senti- 
ments, there were inwoven certain imperious prin- 
ciples of virtue and generosity, which would probably 
remain after time had evaporated the heat of passion, 
and sobered the luxuriance of a romantic imagination. 
I think, therefore, the man of song is rendering the 
community a service when he displays the ardour of 
manly affection in a pleasing light; but certainly we 
need no incentives to the irregular gratification of our 
appetites; and I should think it a proper punishment 
for the poet, who holds forth the allurements of illicit 
pleasures in amiable and seductive colours, should his 
wife, his sister, or his child, fall a victim to the licen- 
tiousness he has been instrumental in diffusing. 

THE PROGRESS OF KNOWLEDGE." 

Few histories would be more worthy of attention 
than that of the progress of knowledge, from its first 
dawn to the time of its meridian splendor, among the 
ancient Greeks. Unfortunately, however, the precau- 
tions which, in this early period, were almost ge- 
nerally taken to confine all knowledge to a particular 



KIRKE WHITE. 187 

branch of men, and when the Greeks began to contend 
for the palm among the learned nations, their back- 
wardness to acknowledge the sources from whence 
they derived the first principles of their philosophy 
have served to wrap this interesting subject in almost 
impenetrable obscurity. Few vestiges, except the 
Egyptian hieroglyphics, now remain of the learning 
of the more' ancient world. Of the two millions of 
verses said to have been written by the Chaldean 
Zoroaster*, we have no relics: and the oracles which 
go under his name are pretty generally acknowledged 
to be spurious. 

The Greeks unquestionably derived their philoso- 
J)lty from the Egyptians and Chaldeans. Both Pytha- 
goras and Plato had visited tho^ countries for the 
advantage of learning; and if we may credit the re- 
ceived accounts of the former of these illustrious sages, 
he was regularly initiated in the schools of Egypt, 
during the period of twenty-two years that he resided 
in that country, and became the envy and admiration 
of the Egyptians themselves. Of the Pythagorean 
doctrines we have some accounts remaining; and 
nothing. is wanting to render the systems of Platonisra 
complete and intelligible. In the dogmas of those 
philosophers, therefore, we may be able to trace the 
learning of these primitive nations, though our con- 
clusions must be cautiously drawn, and much must 
be allowed to the active intelligence of two Greeks. 
Ovid's short summary of the philosophy of Pytha- 
goras deserves attention: • 

Isque, licet cceli regione remotos 

Mente Deos adiit, et, quae natura negabat 

* Pliny. 



188 KIRKE WHITE. 

Visibus humanus, oculis ea pectoris hausit. 
Gumque animo, et vigili perspexerat omnia cura; 
In medium discenda dabat: coetumque silentum, 
Dictaque mirantum, magni primordia mundi 
Et rerum causas, et quid natura, docebat. 
Quid Deus: unde nives: quae fulminis esset origo: 
Jupiter, an venti, discussa nube, tonarent: 
Quid quateret terras: qua. sidera lege mearent: 
Et quodcumque latet. 

If we are to credit this account, and it is corro- 
borated by many other testimonies, Pythagoras 
searched deeply into natural causes. Some have 
imagined, and strongly asserted, that his central fire 
was figurative of the sun, and therefore that he had 
an idea of its real situation; but this opinion, so 
generally adopted, may be combated with some degree 
of reason. I should be inclined to think Pythagoras 
gained his idea of the great central, vivifying, and crea- 
tive fire from the Chaldeans, and that, therefore, it was 
the representative, not of the sun but of the Deity. 
Zoroaster taught that there was one God, Eternal, the 
Father of the Universe; he assimilated the Deity to 
light, and applied to him the names of Light, Beams, 
and Splendour. The Magi, corrupting his repre- 
sentation of -the Supreme Being, and, taking literally 
what was meant as an allegory or symbol, supposed 
that God was this central fire, the source of heat, 
light, and life, residing in the centre of the universe; 
and from hence they introduced among the Chaldeans 
the worship of fire. That Pythagoras was tainted 
with this superstition is well known. On the testi- 
mony of Plutarch, his disciples held, that in the 
midst of the four elements is the fiery globe of Unity, 



KIRKE WHITJ^. 189 

or Monad — the procreative, nutritive, and excitive 
power. The sacred fire of Vesta, among the Greeks 
and Latins, was a remain of this doctrine. 

As the limits of this paper will not allow me to 
take in all the branches of this subject, I shall confine 
my attention to the opinions held by these early na- 
tions of the nature of the Godhead. 

Amidst the corruptions introduced by the Magi, 
we may discern,with tolerable certainty, that Zoroaster 
taught the worship of the one true God; and Thales, 
Pythagoras, and Plato, who had all been initiated 
in the mysteries of the Chaldeans, taught the same 
doctrine. These philosophers likewise asserted the 
omnipotence and eternity of God; and that he was 
the creator of all things, and the governor of the uni- 
verse. Plato decisively supported the doctrines of 
future rewards and punishments; and Pythagoras, 
struck with the idea of the omnipresence of the Deity, 
defined him as animus per universas mundi partes 
omnemque naturam commeans atque diffusus, ex 
quo omnia quce nascuntur animalia vitam capiunt.* — 
An intelligence moving upon, and diffused over, all 
parts of the universe and all nature, from which all 
animals derive their existence. As for the swarm of 
gods worshipped both in Egypt and Greece, it is evi- 
dent they were only esteemed as inferior deities. In 
the time of St. Paul, there was a temple at Athens 
inscribed to the unknown god: and Hesiod makes 
them younger than the earth and heaven. 

*Lactantius Div. Inst. lib. cap. 5, etiam Minu- 
cms Felix, " Pythagorae Deus est animus per univer- 
sam rerum naturam commeans atque intentus, ex quo 
etiam animalium omnium vita capiatur." 



190 KIRKE WHITE. 

'E^ttf)Qtc MS TetM luu Ovpctvos ivpvg ermrov 

Ol T* g» rm eyevovro Qioi Jartipss tauiev. Theoq. 

If Pythagoras, and the other philosophers who suc- 
ceeded him, paid honor to these gods, they either 
did it through fear of encountering ancient prejudices, 
or they reconciled it by recurring to the Demonology 
of their masters, the Chaldeans, who maintained the 
agency of good and bad demons, who presided over 
different things, and were distinguished into the 
powers of light and darkness, heat and cold. It is re- 
markable, too, that amongst all these people, whether 
Egyptians or Chaldeans, Greeks or Romans, as well 
as every other nation under the sun, sacrifices were 
made to the gods, in order to render them propitious 
to their wishes, or to expiate their offences — a fact 
which proves that the conviction of the interference 
of the Deity in human affairs is universal; and, 
what is much more important, that this custom is 
primitive, and derived from the first inhabitants of the 
world. 

A LANDSCAPE SKETCH. 

My days flow on here in an even tenor. They are, 
indeed, studious days, for my studies seem to multi- 
ply on my hands, and I am so much occupied with 
them, that I am becoming a mere book-worm, run- 
ning over the rules of Greek versification in my 
walks, instead of expatiating on the beauties of the 
surrounding scenery. Winteringham is, indeed, now 
a delightful place: the trees are in full verdure, the 
crops are browning the fields, and my former walks 
are becoming dry under foot, which I have never 
known them to be before. The opening vista, from 
our churchyard, over the Humber, to the hills and 



KIRKE WHITE. 191 

receding vales of Yorkshire, assumes a thousand new 
aspects. I sometimes watch it at evening, when the 
sun is just gilding the summits of the hills, and the 
lowlands are beginning to take a browner hue. The 
showers partially falling in the distance, while all 
is serene above me; the swelling sail rapidly falling 
down the river; and, not least of all, the villages, 
woods, and villas, on the opposite bank, sometimes 
render this scene quite enchanting to me; and it is 
no contemptible relaxation, after a man has been 
puzzling his brains over the intricacies of Greek 
choruses all the day, to come out and unbend his 
mind with careless thought and negligent fancies, 
white hfe refreshes his body with the fresh air of the 
country. 

THE DELUSIONS OF LIFE. 

If the situation of man, in the present life, be con- 
sidered in all its relations and dependencies, a striking 
inconsistency will be apparent to a very cursory 
observer. We have sure warrant for believin'g that 
our abode here is to form a comparatively insignificant 
part of our existence, and that on our conduct in this 
life will depend the happiness of the life to come; yet 
our actions daily give the lie to this proposition, 
inasmuch as we commonly act like men who have no 
thought but for the present scene, and to whom the 
grave is the boundary of anticipation. But this is not 
the only paradox which humanity furnishes to the eye 
of a thinking nian. It is very generally the case, 
that we spend our whole lives in the pursuit of 
objects which common experience informs us are not 
capable of conferring that pleasure and satisfaction 



192 KIRKE WHITE. 

which we expect from their enjojmaent. Our views 
are uniformly directed to one point: — happiness , in 
whatever garb it be clad, and under whatever figure 
shadowed, is the great aim of the busy multitudes, 
whom we behold toiling through the vale of life, in 
such an infinite diversity of occupation and disparity 
of views. But the misfortune is, that we seek for 
happiness where she is not to be found, and the cause 
of wonder, that the experience of ages should not 
have guarded us against so fatal and universal an 
error. 

It would be an amusing speculation to consider the 
various points after which om: fellow-mortals are in- 
cessantly straining, and in the possession of which 
they have placed that imaginary chief good which we 
are all doomed to covet, but which, perhaps, none of 
us, in this sublunary state, can attain. At present, 
however, we are led to considerations of a more im- 
portant nature. We turn from the inconsistencies 
observable in the prosecution of our subordinate pur- 
suits, from the partial follies of individuals, to the 
general delusion which seems to envelope the whole 
human race: — the delusion under whose influence 
they lose sight of the chief end of their being, and cut 
down the sphere of their hopes and enjoyments to a 
few rolling years, and that, too, in a scene where they 
know there is neither perfect fruition nor permanent 
delight. 

The faculty of contemplating mankind in the 
abstract, apart from those prepossessions which, both 
by nature and the power of habitual associations, 
would intervene to cloud our view, is only to be 
obtained by a life of virtue and constant meditation, 
by temperance, and purity of thought. Whenever it 



KIREE WHITE. 193 

is attained, it must greatly tend to correct our motives 
— -to simplify our desires — and to excite a spirit of 
contentment and pious resignation. We then, at 
length, are enabled to contemplate our being, in all 
its bearings, and in its full extent, and the result is, 
that superiority to common views and indifference to 
the things of this life, which should be the fruit of 
all true philosophy, and which, therefore, are the 
more peculiar fruits of that system of philosophy 
which is called the Christian. 

To a mind thus sublimed, the great mass of man- 
kind will appear like men led astray by the workings 
of wild and distempered imaginations — visionaries 
who are wandering after the phantoms of their own 
teeming brains; and their anxious solicitude for mere 
rnatters of wordly accommodation and ease will seem 
more like the effects of insanity than of prudent fore- 
sight, as they are esteemed. To the awful importance 
of futurity he will observe them utterly insensible; 
and he will see with astonishment the few allotted 
years of human life wasted in providing abundance 
they will never enjoy, while the eternity they are 
placed here to prepare for, scarcely employs a mo- 
ment's consideration. And yet the mass of these 
poor wanderers in the ways of error have the light of 
truth shining on their very foreheads. They have 
the revelation of Almighty God himself, to declare to 
them the folly of worldly cares, and the necessity of 
providing for a future state of existence. They know, 
by the experience of every preceding generation, that 
a very small portion of joy is allowed to the poor so- 
journers in this vale of tears, and that, too, embittered 
with much pain and fear; and yet every one is willing 
to flatter himself that he shall fare better than his 
17 



194 KIRKE WHITE. 

predecessor in the same path, arid that happiness will 
smile on him which hath frowned on all his pro- 
genitors. 

Still it would be wrong to deny the human race all 
claim to temporal felicity. There may be comparative, 
although very little positive happiness; — whoever is 
more exempt from the cares of the world and the cala- 
mities incident to humanity — whoever enjoys more 
contentment of mindy and is more resigned to the dis- 
pensations of Divine Providence — in a word, whoever 
possesses more of the true spirit of Christianity than 
his neighbours, is comparatively happy. But the 
number of these, it is to be feared, is very small. 
Were all men equally enlightened by the illuminations 
of truth, as emanating from the Spirit of Jehovah him- 
self, they would all concur in the pursuit of virtuous 
ends by virtuous means: — as there would be no vice, 
there would be very little infelicity. Every pain would 
be met with fortitude, every affliction with resignation. 
We should then all look back to the past with com- 
placency, and to the future with hope. Even this un- 
stable state of being would have many exquisite enjoy- 
ments — the principal of which would be the anticipa- 
tion of that approaching state of beatitude to which we 
might then look with confidence, through the medium 
of that atonement of which we should be partakers, and 
our acceptance, by virtue of which, would be sealed by 
that purity of mind of which human nature is, of it- 
self, incapable. But if is from the mistakes and mis- 
calculations of manKmd, to which their fallen natures 
are continually prone, that arises that flood of misery 
which overwhelms the whole race, and resounds where- 
ever the footsteps of man have penetrated. It is the 
lamentable error of placing happiness in vicious in- 



KIRKE WHITE. 195 

dulgences, or thinking to pursue it by vicious means. 
It is the blind folly of sacrificing the welfare of the 
future to the opportunity of immediate guilty gratifi- 
cation which destroys the harmony of society, and 
poisons the peace, not only of the immediate pro- 
creators of the errors — not only of the identical actors 
of the vices themselves, but of all those of their 
fellows who fall within the reach of their influence or 
example, or who are in any wise connected with them 
by the ties of blood. 

I would therefore exhort you earnestly— you who 
are yet unskilled in the ways of the world — to beware 
on what object you concentre your hopes. Pleasures 
mdiy allure — pride or ambition may stimulate, but 
their fruits are hollow and deceitful, and they afford no 
sure, no solid satisfaction. You are placed on the 
earth in a state of probation — ^your continuance here 
will be, at the longest, a very short period, and when 
you are called from hence you plunge into an eternity, 
the completion of which will be in correspondence to 
your past life, unutterably happy or inconceivably mi- 
serable. Your fate will probably depend on your early 
pursuits — it will be these which will give the turn to 
your character and to your pleasures. I beseech you, 
therefore, with a meek and lowly spirit, to read the 
pages of that Book, which the wisest and best of men 
have acknowledged to be the word of God. You will 
there find a rule of moral conduct, such as the world 
never had any idea of before its divulgation. If you 
covet earthly happiness, it is only to be found in the 
path you will find there laid down, and I can confi- 
dently promise you, in a life of simplicity and purity, 
a life passed in accordance with the Divine word, 
such substantial bliss, such unruffled peace, as is no- 



196 KIRKE WHITE. 

where else to be found. All other schemes of earthly 
pleasure are fleeting and unsatisfactory. They all 
entail upon them repentance and bitterness of thought. 
This alone endureth for e\er — this alone embraces 
equally the present and the future — this alone can 
arm a man against every calamity — can alone shed 
the balm of peace over that scene of life when plea- 
sures have lost their zest, and the mind can no longer 
look forward to the dark .and mysterious future. 
Above all, beware of the ignis fcduus of false philo- 
sophy: that must be a very defective system of 
ethics which will not bear a man through the most 
trying stage of his existence, and I know of none that 
will do it but the Christian. 

MARRIAGE. 

I have one observation to make, which- 1 hope you 
will forgive in me : it is, that you fall in love too 
readily. I have no notion of a man's having a certain 
species of affection for two women at once. I am 
afraid you let your admiration outrun your judgment 
in the outset, and then comes the denouement and its 
attendants, disappointment and disgust. Take good 
heed you do not do this in marriage ; for if you do,, 
there will be a great risk of your making shipwreck of 
your hopes. Be content to learn a woman's good 
qualities as they gradually reveal themselves; and 
do not let your imagination adorn her with virtues 
and charms io which she has no pretension. I think 
there is often a little disappointment after marriage — 
our angels turn out to be mere Eves; but the true 
way of avoiding, or, at least, lessening this inconve- 
nience, is to estimate the object of our affections really 
as she is, without deceiving ourselves, and injuring 



KlRKi: WHITE. 197 

her, by elevating her above her sphere. This is the 
way to be happy in marriage ; for upon this plan our 
partners will be continually breaking in upon us, and 
delighting us with some new discovery of excellence: 
while, upon the other plan, we shall always be finding 
that the reality falls short of what we had so fondly 
and so foolishly imagined. 

1^ '0P •!? ^ "V ^ . * 

I hope you will soon find that a wife is a very 
necessary article of enjoyment in a domesticated state; 
for how indeed should it be otherwise? A man 
cannot cook his dinner while he is employed in earning 
it. Housekeepers are complete helluones rei familia- 
rise and not only pick your pockets, but abuse you into 
the bargain. While a wife, on the contrary, both 
cooks your dinner, and enlivens it with her society; 
receives you after the toils of the day with cheerful- 
ness and smiles, and is not only the faithful guardian 
of your treasury, but the soother of your cares, and 
the alleviator of your calamities. Now, am I not 
very poetical? But on such a subject who would 
not be poetical? A wife! — a domestic fireside! — the 
cheerful assiduities of love and tenderness! It would 
inspire a Dutch burgomaster! and if, with all this 
ki your grasp, you shall still choose the pulsar e 
terram pede libero, still avoid the irrupta copula, still 
d]eem it a matter of light regard to be an object of 
affection and fondness to an amiable and sensible 
woman, why then you deserve to be a fellow of a 
college all your days; to be kicked about in your 
last illness by a saucy and careless bed-maker: and, 
lastly, to be put in the ground in your college chapel, 
followed only by the man who is to be your successor. 
Why, man, I dare no more dream that I shall ever 
17* 



198 KIRKE WHITE. 

have it in my power to have a wife, than that I shall 
be archbishop of Canterbury, and primate of all Eng- 
land. A suite of rooms in a still quiet comer of old 
St. John's, which was once occupied by a crazy monk, 
or by one of the translators of the Bible in the days 
of good King James, must form the boundary of my 
ambition. I must be content to inhabit walls which 
never echoed with a female voice, to be buried in 
glooms which were never cheered with a female smile. 
It is said, indeed, that women were sometimes per- 
mitted to visit St. John's when it was a monastery of 
white-friars, in order to be present at particular reli- 
gious ceremonies ; but the good monks were careful to 
sprinkle holy water wherever their profane footsteps 
had carried contagion and pollution. 

MELANCHOLY. 

Philosophers have divested themselves of their na- 
tural apathy, and poets have risen above themselves, 
in descanting on the pleasures of Melancholy. There 
is no mind so gross, no understanding so uncultivated, 
as to be incapable, at certain moments, and amid 
certain con^binations, of feeling that sublime influence 
upon the spirits which steals the soul from the petty 
anxieties of the world 

'And fits it to hold converse with the gods.' 

I must confess, if such there be who never felt the 
divine abstraction, I envy them not their \insensibilty. 
For my own part, it is from the indulgence of this 
soothing power that I derive the most exquisite of 
gratifications; at the calm hour of moonlight, amid 
all the sublime serenity, the dead stillness of the 
night; or when the howling storm rages in the 



KIRKE WHITE. 199 

heavens, the rain pelts on my roof, and the winds 
whistle through the crannies of my apartment; I feel 
the divine mood of melancholy upon me; I imagine 
myself placed upon an eminence, above the crowds 
who pant below in the dusty tracks of wealth and 
honour. The black catalogue of crimes and of vice, 
the sad tissue of wretchedness and woe, passes in re- 
view before me, and I look down upon man with an 
eye of pity and commisseration. Though the scenes 
which I survey be mournful, and the ideas they ex- 
cite equally sombre; though the tears gush as I 
contemplate them, and my heart feels heavy with the 
sorrowful emotions which they inspire; yet are they 
not unaccompanied with sensations of the purest and 
most ecstatic bliss. 

It is to the spectator alone that Melancholy is for- 
bidding; in herself she is soft and interesting, and 
capable of affording pure and unalloyed delight. Ask 
the lover why he muses by the side of the purling 
brook, or plunges into the deep gloom of the forest? 
Ask the unfortunate why he seeks the still shades of 
solitude? or the man who feels the pangs of disap- 
pointed ambition, why he retires into the silent 
wallis of seclusion? and he will tell you that he de^ 
rives a pleasure therefrom which nothing else can 
impart. It is the delight of Melancholy; but the 
melancholy of these beings is as far removed from 
that of the philosopher, as are the narrow and con- 
tracted complaints of selfishness from the mournful 
regrets of expansive philanthropy; as are the despond- 
ing intervals of insanity from the occasional depres- 
sions of benevolent sensibility. 

The man who has attained that calm equanimity 
which qualifies him to look down upon the petty evils 



200 KIRKE WHITE. 

of life with indifference; who can so far conquer the 
weakness of nature as to consider the sufferings of 
the individual of little moment, when put in compe- 
tition with the welfare of the community, is alone the 
true philosopher. His melancholy is not excited by 
the retrospect of his own misfortunes; it has its rise 
from the contemplation of the miseries incident to life, 
and the evils which obtrude themselves upon society, 
and interrupt the harmony of nature. It would be 
arrogating too much merit to myself to assert that I 
have a just claim to the title of a philosopher, as it is 
here defined; or to say that the speculations of my 
melancholy hours are equally disinterested: be this 
as it may, I have determined to present my solitary 
effusions to the public; they will at least have the 
merit of novelty to recommend them, and may possibly, 
in some measure, be instrumental in the melioration 
of the human heart, or the correction of false prepos- 
sessions. This is the height of my ambition; this 
once attained, and my end will be fully accomphshed. 
One thing I can safely promise, though far from 
being the coinages of a heart at ease, they will contain 
neither the querulous captiousness of misfortunes, nor 
the bitter taunts of misanthrophy. Society is a chain 
of which I am merely a link; all men are my asso- 
ciates in error; and though some may have gone 
farther in the ways of guilt than myself, yet it is not 
in me to sit in judgment upon them; it is mine to 
treat them rather in pity than in anger, to lament 
their crimes, and weep over their sufferings. As these 
papers will be the amusement of those hours of re- 
laxation, when the mind recedes from the vexations 
of business, and sinks into itself for a moment of 
solitary ease, rather than the efforts of literary leisure, 



KIRKS WHITE. 201 

the reader will not expect to find in them anusual 
elegance of language, or studied propriety of style. 
In the short and necessary intervals of cessation from 
the anxieties of an irksome employment, one finds 
little time to be solicitous about expression. If, 
therefore, the fervour of a glowing mind expresses 
itself in too warm and luxuriant a manner for the cold 
ear of dull propiety, let the fastidious critic find a 
selfish pleasure in decrying it. To criticism melan- 
choly is indiflferent. If learning cannot be better em- 
ployed than in declaiming against the defects, while 
it is insensible to the beauties of a performance, well 
may we exclaihi with the poet, 

• 
ft tu/mivnc evyvoitt as etju.ce/u.05 t/? u 
Orm ot <rv cv t^ois ovrac cr* ovk aeyvou. 

THE HUMAN MIND. 

The economy of creation is every where pregnant 
with wonder; but nature has no mystery so astonish- 
ing, no secret so dark, as the human mind. It was 
in this respect, in respect to his reasoning powers, that 
man was originally made in the express image of 
God; and it is from hence that the same inscrutable 
gloom hangs over that wonderful part of our being 
which is called mind, as shrouds the king of the uni- 
verse himself, and all his attributes, from the vulgar 
gaze. 

Although we are sometimes able, obscurely, to 
trace our ratiocinative faculties in the course of their 
operations, yet our observations tend to little more 
than to excite astonishment at the subtilty of their 
transitions, and the swiftness with which they trans- 
verse all nature, and connect, by an almost imper- 



202 KIRKE WHITE 

ceptible link, ideas the most distant. Being thus 
little acquainted with the mind at large, we know it 
merely by its effects, and consider genius, or natural 
superiority of intellect, only in connexion with the 
object to which it is directed, and in which it excels; 
but the ethereal and evanescent quality in which ge- 
nius more particularly consists, seems to elude our 
keenest observation. The power of combining a larger 
number of ideas must always be regarded as a cha- 
racteristic of a great mind; but it is so far from being 
the sole constituent of genius, that alone it would, 
probably, produce no movements of excellence. If it 
were unattended with the warmth and enthusiasm, 
which is another and a more universal mark* of genius, 
it would want an adequate motive for exertion; it 
would soon grow cold and languid in its efforts, and 
would achieve nothing, because it would plan little. 
There are even adventitious circumstances, which, 
though they add nothing to the powers of the mind 
themselves, are perhaps necessary to call them into 
action, and without which they might lie unnoticed, 
and undiscovered. I believe that even Pascal him- 
self, although so many wonders are told of the irresist- 
ible impulse by which he was led to the mathematics, 
was indebted for his first inclination for these studies 
to the conversation of his father, who was deeply 
versed in them. 

Milton was blind, and Homer is supposed to have 
been blind; and where do we meet with such strong 
and characteristic painting as in Milton and Homer? 
Those works of the former poet which were written 
before the loss of his sight, beautiful and glowing as 
they are, do not possess either the strength of delinea- 
tion, or the bold sublimity of conception, remarkable 



KIRKE WHITE. 203 

in his epics. It may be thought paradoxical to assert 
that he would never have produced the Paradise Lost, 
had he never lost his sight; but that it had consider- 
able influence on that work, will, on reflection, ap- 
pear not improbable. 

A thousand springs, unseen even to the eye of the 
minute observer, contribute to the production of a 
work of genius. The sophists imagine that man was 
once a monkey, and inhabited the woods, but that he 
accidentally learned the use of the muscle, by the 
contraction of which the thumb is broyght in contact 
with the forefinger; that, from the dexterity which 
this discovery gave him, he gradually improved his 
facfflties, -and heaped discovery upon discovery, until 
he arose to the summit of science and art. This ri- 
diculous story may be applied with more propriety to 
the mind. The energies of a mighty genius lie dor- 
mant, like a treasure hidden even from its owner, 
until some happy chance, some fortunate accident, 
gives them the first impulse, and awakes their owner 
to a sense of his unobserved powers. From this pe- 
riod the progress of genius may be gradual, but it is 
sure: when once the enchanted spring has been 
touched, the mind will recur with eagerness to its 
newly discover'd pursuit; it will hang with a secret 
and inexpressible fondness over its hidden beauties; 
it will expatiate on all its varying appearances, and 
trace its unfolding graces, until it comes forth pre- 
pared to astonish mankind with pure and original 
excellence. In works of mere genius, the fire and 
animation which stamps their sterling worth upon 
them is often caught from the mere reflection of these 
first transports. A kind of sacred sublimity seems to 
dwell upon every thing connected with that object to 



204 KIRKE WHITE. 

which the genius is particularly bent, and as often as 
it is recalled to the mind, the fervour and enthusiasm 
of former periods are again and again excited. 

To this cause I attribute the particularities of com- 
position and character which have distinguished some 
of the poets. Some have manifested peculiar fondness 
for night — some for ocean scenery; others for woods 
and groves; and, among the incidents of mortal life, 
for subjects which touch on grief, or love, fortitude, 
complaint, death. So, likewise, many have been able 
to write only at particular periods. Milton's verse 
flowed only from the autumnal to the vernal equinox; 
and Thomson seldom composed except in the autumn, 
and during the night season. Poetry, with them, was 
connected with particular impressions which probably 
they were themselves unable to trace, but from which it 
was in no wise happily to be separated. Dr. Johnson 
has sneered at these fancies, as he is pleased to call 
them ; but when he has defined in what true genius 
consists, he may be permitted to decide on matters 
which affect its essence. 

Conceiving it, then, to be at all events in a greater 
or less degree true, that genius depends on fortuitous 
circumstances, and external impressions, the poet's 
position will appear most certain, that 

* Full many a flower is horn to blush unseen. 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.* 

This reflection might be a mournful one to a disci- 
ple of Epicurus; but, confiding in the existence of ai* 
all-good and wise Providence, we trust that no man 
of real genius has been permitted to wear away the 
day of mortality in obscurity and neglect, but him 



KIRKE WHITE. 205 

whose talents, had they been called into action, would 
have been ruinous to mankind, and destructive to 
himself. 

PICTURES OF MISERY. 

It is common for busy and active men to behold the 
occupations of the retired and contemplative person 
with contempt. They consider his speculations as idle 
and unproductive ; as they participate in none of his 
feelings, they are strangers to his motives, his views, 
and his delights ; they behold him elaborately employ- 
ed on what they conceive forwards none of the inter- 
ests of life, contributes to none of its gratifications, re- 
moves none of its inconveniences: they conclude, 
therefore, that he is led away by the delusions of fu- 
tile philosophy, that he labours for no good, and lives 
to no end. Of the various frames of mind which they 
observe in him, no one seems to predominate more, 
and none appears to them more absurd, than sadness, 
which seems, in some degree, to pervade all his views, 
and shed a solemn tinge over all his thoughts. Sad- 
ness, arising from no personal grief, and connected 
with no individual concern, they regard as moonstruck 
melancholy, the effect of a mind overcast with con- 
stitutional gloom, and diseased with habits of vain and 
fanciful speculation. — ' We can share with the sorrows 
of the unfortunate,' say they, * but this monastic 
spleen merits only our derision: it tends to no benefi- 
cial purpose, it benefits neither its possessor nor socie- 
ty.' Those who have thought a little more on this 
subject than the gay and busy crowd will draw con- 
clusions of a different nature. That there is a sadness 
springing from the noblest and purest sources, a sad- 
ness friendly to the human heart, and, by direct con- 
18 



206 KIRKE WHITE. 

sequence, to human nature in general, is a truth which 
a little illustration will render tolerably clear, and 
which, when understood in its full force, may proba- 
bly convert contempt and ridicule into respect. 

I set out, then, with the proposition, that the man 
who thinks deeply, especially if his reading be exten- 
sive, will, unless his heart be very cold and very light, 
become habituated to a pensive, or, with more pro- 
priety, a mournful cast of thought. This will arise 
from two more particular sources — from the view of 
human nature in general, as demonstrated by the ex- 
perience both of past and present times, and from the 
contemplation of individual instances of human de- 
pravity and of human suffering. The first of these is, 
indeed, the last in the order of time, for his general 
views of humanity are in a manner consequential, or 
resulting from a special; but I have inverted that 
order for the sake of perspicuity. 

Of those who have occasionally thought on these 
subjects, I may, with perfect assurance of their reply, 
inquire what have been their sensations when they 
have, for a moment, attained a more enlarged and ca- 
pacious notion of the state of man in all its bearings 
and dependencies. They have found, and the pro- 
foundest philosophers have done no more, that they 
are enveloped in mystery, and that the mystery of man's 
situation is not without alarming and fearful circumstan- 
ces. They have discovered that all they know of them- 
selves is that they live, but that from whence they came 
or whither they are going, is by nature altogether hid- 
den; that impenetrable gloom surrounds them on every 
side, and that they even hold their morrow on the 
credit of to day, when it is, in fact, buried in the vague 
and indistinct gulf of the ages to come! — These are 



EIRKE WHITE. 207 

reflections deeply interesting, and lead to others so 
awful, that many gladly shut their eyes on the giddy 
and unfathomable depths which seem to stretch before 
them. The meditative man, however, endeavours to 
pursue them to the farthest stretch of the reasoning 
powers, and to enlarge his conceptions of the mysteries 
of his own existence; and the more he learns, and the 
deeper he penetrates, the more cause does he find for 
being serious, and the more inducements to be con- 
tinually thoughtful. 

If, again, we turn from the condition of mortal 
existence, considered in the abstract, to the qualities 
an4, characters of man, and his condition in a state of 
society, we see things perhaps equally straijge and in- 
finitely more affecting. — In the economy of creation, 
we perceive nothing inconsistent with the power of an 
all-vnse and all-merciful God. A perfect harmony 
runs through all the parts of the universe. Plato's 
sirens sing not only from the planetary octave, but 
through all the minutest divisions of the stupendous 
whole; order,* beauty , and perfection, the traces of the 
great Architect, glow through every particle of his 
work. At mart, however, we stop: there is one excep- 
tion. The harmony of order ceases, and vice and 
misery disturb the beautiful consistency of creation, 
and bring us first acquainted with positive evil. We 
behold men carried irresistibly away by corrupt prin- 
ciples and vicious inclinations, indulging in propen- 
sities, destructive as well to themselves as to those 
around them; the stronger oppressing the weaker, and 
the bad persecuting the good! we see the depraved in 
prosperity, the virtuous in adversity, the guilty un- 
punished, the deserving overwhelmed with unprovoked 
misfortunes. From hence we are tempted to think. 



20S 



KIRKE WHITE. 



that He, whose arm holds the planets in their course, 
and directs the comets along their eccentric orbits, 
ceases to exercise his pro-vidence over the affairs of 
mankind, and leaves them to be governed and direct- 
ed by the impulses of a corrupt heart, or the blind 
workings of chance alone. Yet this is inconsistent both 
with the wisdom and goodness of the Deity, If God 
permit evil, he causes it: the difference is casuistical. 
We are led, therefore, to conclude, that it was not al- 
ways thus: that man was created in a far different and 
far happier condition ; but that, by some means or oth- 
er, he has forfeited the protection of his Maker. Here 
then is a mystery. The ancients, led by reasonings 
alone, perceived it with amazement, but did not solve 
the problem. They attempted some explanation of it 
by the lame fiction of a golden age and its cession, 
where, by a circular mode of reasoning, they attribute 
the introduction of vice to their gods having deserted 
the earth, and the desertion of the gods to the introduc- 
tion of vice.* This,however,was the logic of the poets: 



* Kctt TOTS cTj) 7rf>0C CKVJUTTOV CLTtO ^BoVO( iUgVoS'UH^ 
AWKOCriV <pXl^iiO-iri KAXV-ifCLfAi.'Ce 'X^flOA }C:tKOV, 

AQctvoLTeev /uircKpuKov ITOV, TrpoKiTTovr' oivBpa)7rovs ' 
A.iS'O); Kctt Nifjt.i(ric' ta cTs KU-^iTou axy&A Kvypt 

Hesiod. Opera et Dies. Lib. 1. 195. 

Victa jacet Pietas : et Virgo caede madentes, 
■Ultima coBlestum terras Astraea reliquit. 

Ovid. Metamor. L. 1. Fab. 4. 

Paulatim deinde ad Superos Astrsea recessit, 
Hac comite atque duae pariter fugere sorores. 

Juvenal. Sat. vi. 1. 10. 



KIRKE WHITE. 209 

the philosophers disregarded the fable, but did not 
dispute the fact it was intended to account for. They 
often hint at human degeneracy, and some unknown 
curse hanging over our being, and even coming into the 
world along with us. Pliny, in the preface to his 
seventh book, has this remarkable passage: " The 
animal about to rule over the rest of the created ani- 
mals lies weeping, bound hand and foot, making his 
first entrance upon life with sharp pangs, and this for 
no other crime than that he is born man.'' — Cicero, 
in a passage, for the preservation of which we are in- 
debted to St. Augustine, gives a yet stronger idea of 
an existing degeneracy in human nature : — ' Man,' 
says he, ' comes into existence, not as from the hands 
of a mother, but of a step-dame nature, with a body 
feeble, naked, and fragile, and a mind exposed to anx- 
iety and care, abject in fear, unmeet for labour, prone 
to licentiousness, in which, however, there still dwell 
some sparks of the divine mind, though obscured, and, 
as it were, in ruins.' And, in another place, he inti- 
mates it as a current opinion, that man comes into 
the world as into a state of punishment expiatory of 
crimes committed in some previous stage of existence, 
of which we now retain no recollection. 

From these proofs, and from daily observation and 
experience, there is every ground for concluding that 
man is in a state of misery and depravity quite incon- 
sistent with the happiness for which, by a benevolent 
God, he must have been created. We see glaring 
marks of this in our times. Prejudice alone blinds us 
to the absurdity and the horror of those systematic 
murders which go by the name of wars, where man 
falls on man, brother slaughters brother; where death, 

in every variety of horror, preys ' on the finely-fibred 

18* 



210 KIRKE WHITE. 

human frames* and where the cries of the widow and 
the orphan rise up to heaven long after the thunder of 
the fight and the clang of arms have ceased, and the 
bones of sons, brothers, and husbands slain are grown 
white on the field. Customs like these vouch, with 
most miraculous organs, for the depravity of the hu- 
man heart, and these are not the most mournful of 
those considerations which present themselves to the 
mind of the thinking man. 

Private life is equally fertile in calamitous perver- 
sion of reason, and extreme accumulation of misery. 
On the one hand, we see a large proportion of men 
sedulously employed in the eduction of their own 
ruin, pursuing vice in all its varieties, and sacrificing 
the peace and happiness of the innocent and unoffend- 
ing to their own brutal gratifications; and on the other, 
pain, misfortune, and misery, overwhelming alike the 
good and the bad, the provident and the improvident. 
But too general a view would distract our attention: 
let the reader pardon me if I suddenly draw him 
away from the survey of the crowds of life to a few 
detached scenes. We will select a single picture at 
random. The character is common. 

Behold that beautiful female, who is rallying a well 
dressed young man with so much gaiety and humour? 
Did you ever see so lovely a countenance? There is 
an expression of vivacity in her fine dark eye which 
quite captivates one; and her smile, were it a little 
less bold, would be bewitching. How gay and care- 
less she seems ! One would suppose she had a very 
light and happy heart. Alas! how appearances de- 
ceive! This gaiety is all feigned. It is her business 
to please, dnd beneath a fair and painted outside she 
conceals an unquiet and forlorn breast. When she was 



KIRK.E WHITE. 211 

yet very young, an engaging but dissolute young man 
took advantage of her simplicity, and of the affection 
with which he had inspired her, to betray her virtue. 
At first her infamy cost her many tears; but habit 
wore away this remorse, leaving only a kind of indis- 
tinct regret, and, as she fondly loved her betrayer, she 
experienced, at times, a mingled pleasure even in this 
abandoned situation. But this was soon over. Her 
lover, on pretence of a journey into the country, left 
her for ever. She soon afterward heard of his mar- 
riage, with an agony of grief which few can adequate- 
ly conceive, and none describe. The calls of want, 
however, soon subdued the more distracting ebulli- 
tions of anguish. She had no choice left; all the 
gates of virtue were shut upon her ; and though she 
really abhorred the course, she was obliged to betake 
herself to vice for support. Her next keeper possessed 
her person without her heart. She has since passed 
through several hands, and has found, by bitter ex- 
perience, that the vicious, on whose generosity she is 
thrown, are devoid of all feeling but that of self-grati- 
fication, and that even the wages of prostitution are 
reluctantly and grudgingly paid. She now looks on 
all men as sharpers. She smiles but to entangle and 
destroy; and while she simulates fondness, is intent 
only on the extorting of that, at best poor pittance, 
which her necessities loudly demand. Thoughtless as 
she may seem, she is not without an idea of her for- 
lorn and wretched situation, and she looks only to 
sudden death as her refuge, against that time when 
her charms shall cease to allure the eye of inconti- 
nence, when even the lowest haunts of infamy shall be 
shut against her, and, without a friend or a hope, she 
must sink under the pressure of want and disease. 



212 EIRKE WHITE. 

But we will now shift the scene a little, and select 
another object. Behold yon poor weary wretch, who, 
with a child wrapt in her arms, with difficulty drags 
along the road. The man with a knapsack, who is 
walking before her, is her husband, and is marching to 
join his regiment. He has been spending, at a dram- 
shop in the town they have just left, the supply which 
the pale and weak appearance of his wife proclaims 
was necessary for her sustenance. He is now half 
drunk, and is venting the artificial spirits which in- 
toxication excites in the abuse of his weary helpmate 
behind him. She seems to listen to his reproaches in 
patient silence. Her face will tell you more than 
many words, as, with a wan and meaning look, she 
surveys the little wretch who is asleep on her arms. 
The turbulent brutality of the man excites no atten- 
tion: she is pondering on the future chance of life, 
and the probable lot of her heedless little one. 

One other picture, and I have done. The man 
pacing with a slow step and languid aspect over yon 
prison-court was once a fine dashing fellow, the ad- 
miration of the ladies, and the envy of the men. He 
is the only representative of a once respectable family, 
and is brought to this situation by unlimited indul- 
gence at that time when the check is most necessary. 
He began to figure in genteel life at an early age. His 
misjudging mother to whose sole care he was left, 
thinking no alliance too good for her darling, cheer- 
fully supplied his extravagance, imder the idea that it 
would not last long, and that it would enable him to 
shine in those circles where she wished him to rise. 
But he soon found that habits of prodigality, once 
well gained, are never eradicated. His fortune, 
though genteel, was not adequate to such habits of 



KIRKE WHITE. 213 

expense. His unhappy parent lived to see him make 
a degrading alliance, and come in danger of a jail, 
and then died of a broken heart. His affairs soon 
woimd themselves up. His debts were enormous, and 
he had nothing to pay them with. He has now been 
in that prison many years, and since he is excluded 
from the benefit of an insolvency act, he has made up 
his mind to the idea of ending his days there. His 
wife, whose beauty had decoyed him, since she found 
he could not support her, deserted him for those who 
could, leaving him, without friend or companion, to 
pace, with measured steps, ovfer the court of a country 
jail, and endeavour to beguile the lassitude of im- 
pflsonment, by thinking on the days that are gone, 
or counting the squares in his grated window in every 
possible direction, backwards, forwards, and across, 
till he sighs to find the sum always the same, and that 
the more anxiously we strive to beguile the moments 
in their course , the more sluggishly they travel. 

If these are accurate pictures of some of the varie- 
ties of human suffering, and if such pictures are 
common even to triteness, what conclusions must we 
draw as to the condition of man in general, and what 
must be the prevailing* frame of mind of him who 
meditates much on these subjects, and who, embracing 
the whole tissue of causes and effects, sees Misery in- 
variably the offspring of Vice, and Vice existing in hos- 
tility to the intentions and wishes of God? Let the 
meditative man turn where he will, he finds traces of 
the depraved state of Nature, and her consequent 
misery. History presents him with little but murder, 
treachery, and crimes of every description. Biogra- 
phy only strengthens the view by concentrating it. 
The philosophers remind him of the existence of evil, 



214 KIRKE WHITE. 

by their lessons how to avoid or endure it; and the 
very poets themselves afford him pleasure, not uncon- 
nected with regret, as, either by contrast, exempli- 
fication, or deduction, they bring the world and its 
circumstances before his eyes. 

That such a one, then, is prone to sadness, who 
will wonder ? If such meditations are beneficial, who 
will blame them? The discovery of evil naturally, 
leads us to contribute our mite towards the alleviation 
of the wretchedness it introduces. While we lament 
vice, we learn to shun it ourselves, and to endeavour, 
if possible, to arrest its progress in those around us ; 
and in these high and lofty spe culations, we are in- 
sensibly led to think humbly of ourselves, and to lift 
up our thoughts to Him who is alone the fountain of 
all perfection and the source of all good. 



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